A love he does not know, nor could impart;
To wake a soul within the marble breast,
Then long to soothe it back to stony rest;
For, though the woman’s sweeter to caress,
The statue’s more convenient to possess.”
Here is a specimen of the sonnets, not the best, perhaps, but to the purpose:
CIRCE.
Men call me Circe, but my name is Love;
And my cup holds the draught of sweet and sour,
Of gain, joy, loss, renouncement, all the dower