Why pout with fond, bewitching art?
For to those lips, Neæra, know,
My lips shall not one kiss impart.
Perhaps you’d have me greatly prize,
Hard-hearted fair, your precious kiss;
But learn, proud mortal, I despise
Such cold, such unimpassioned bliss.
Think’st thou I calmly feel the flame
That all my rending bosom fires,
And patient bear, through all my frame,