“One little kiss, sweet maid!” I cry,
And round my neck your arms you twine!
Your luscious lips of crimson dye
With rapturous haste encounter mine.
But quick those lips my lips forsake,
With wanton, tantalizing jest;
So starts some rustic from the snake
Beneath his heedless footstep prest.
Is this to grant the wished-for kiss?
Ah! no, my love,—’tis but to fire