She laughed the while, with an arch smile,
And kissed him with a sister's kiss.
And said—'My best Diogenes,
I love you well—but, if you please,
Tempt not again my deepest bliss.
XIII.
''Tis you are cold—for I, not coy,
Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true;
And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy—
His errors prove it—knew my joy