Fly—who’rt peering, I am certain,
At me now from yonder curtain:
Busy, curious, thirsty fly
(As thou’rt clept, I well know why)—
Cease, if only for a single
Hour, to make my being tingle!
Flee to some loved haunt of thine;
To the valleys where the kine,
Udder-deep in grasses cool,
Or the rushy margined pool,