Pray’d her for mercy,—to hear and forgive;
“Oh, spare me!” cried he, “by those eyes in their splendour;
Oh, pity my fault, and allow me to live!
“Am I to blame that your cheeks are like roses,
Whose hues all the pride of the garden eclipse?
Lilies are hid in your mouth when it closes,
And odours of Araby breathe from your lips.”
Sweet Fanny relented: “’twere cruel to hurt you;
Small is the fault, pretty bee, you deplore;
And e’en were it greater, forgiveness is virtue;