The air which thy smooth voice doth break,
Into my soul like lightning flies;
My life retires while thou dost speak,
And thy soft breath its room supplies.
Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,
I join my trembling lips to thine,
And back receive that life from thee
Which I so gladly did resign.
Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire
What numbers do the soul compose;
No harmony can life inspire
But that which from these accents flows.
—Thomas Stanley
A Rondeau to Ethel
"In tea-cup times"! The style of dress
Would meet your beauty, I confess;
Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;
I picture you the powdered hair,—
You'd make a charming Shepherdess!
And I—no doubt—could well express
Sir Plume's complete conceitedness,—
Could poise a clouded cane with care
"In tea-cup times"!
The parts would fit precisely—yes;
We should achieve a huge success!
You should disdain, and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But ... could I love you more, or less,—
"In tea-cup times"?
—Austin Dobson