Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest when I talk of beauty’s light,
As if it brought the memory of pain.
Thou art a wayward being—well—come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.
What say’st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick?
And China Bloom at best is sorry food?
And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick,
Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood.