TO CHLOE
|
II
Chloe, you shun me like a hind That, seeking vainly for her mother, Hears danger in each breath of wind, And wildly darts this way and t' other; Whether the breezes sway the wood Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, She starts, and off, as though pursued, The foolish, frightened creature scrambles. But, Chloe, you're no infant thing That should esteem a man an ogre; Let go your mother's apron-string, And pin your faith upon a toga! |
III
A PARAPHRASE
| How happens it, my cruel miss, You're always giving me the mitten? You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten! A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put aside all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression. A mother's solace may be sweet, But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter; And though all virile love be meet, You'll find the poet's love is metre. |