Wooed the soft mortal tremulously yielding
All her enchantments to the mighty victor—
Happy Ariadne!
There will I, dearest, every frown abandon;
Nor do thou fear, nor hesitate to press me,
Since, if I chide, 'tis but a girl's reproval,
Faintly reluctant.
Doubt not I love thee, whether I return thy
Kisses in delight, or avert demurely
Lips that in truth burn to be kissed the closer,