As if his soul lay mirrored there,
Then drew her close to his embrace—
But shrinking back, she said—“Take care!”
“It never gave me joy,” he sighed,
“The dew from saintly lips to sip—
I’d rather quaff the lava tide
That flushes Passion’s burning lip.”
“Then go,” she said—“I spurn thy kiss—
Go, kneel at glowing Venus’ shrine,
And drink thy fill of wanton bliss—