One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouring
In the ear of a shy little wanton in gauze,
His eternal devotion, his ceaseless adoring,
Which shall last till the universe breaks from its laws.
His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever
Of a rapturous moment: it knows no control;
It will burn in his breast through existence for ever,
Immutably fixed in the deeps of his soul!
She wavers, she flutters: male midges are fickle;
Dare she trust him her future? she asks with a sigh.