Who pass his ivory bow with wanton quips.
But in the honeyest kiss of human lips
There lurks a poison—ay, when hearts most mingle,
Doth Fate perchance prepare his scorpion whips;
And nerves that with the keenest rapture tingle
Shall haply curse the hour when ceased they to be single!
III.
’Twas a delicious, soft autumnal eve;
Salustian through his lovely garden strayed,