ON MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE.
Nay, fond one, shun that mistletoe,
Nor lure me ’neath its fatal bough:
Some other night ’twere joy to go,
But ah! I must not, dare not, now!
’Tis sad, I own, to see thy face
Thus tempt me with its giggling glee,
And feel I cannot now embrace
The opportunity—and thee.
’Tis sad to think that jealousy’s