Must thy parched tongue await that roseate wine;
Seven full nights, fond boy, must thou entreat her;
Whilst mantle to her cheeks, incarnadine,
Youth’s beauty, beauty’s youth—and readers vex’t
Know, need know, nothing more till Tuesday next.
V.
Brings life to week-old statues; makes them prance
To love’s light tune—and ends the Seymours’ dance.
Pale shapes I locked in memory’s studio,