Between our quarrel-scenes.
If one full-leaping pulse's beat
Beyond the coldest courtesy's demand
I trespass on sweet Phyllida's coy hand,
The thrill is shivered by her quick retreat,
Her fingers stiffen like a fossil fin,
And I again, a Sisyphus, begin
The task of charming her reserve austere,
Palsied by Love's false fear,
Which drives the lover's chances down to zero.