What stripling, flowered and scent-bedewed,
Now courts thee in what solitude?
For whom dost thou in order set
Thy tresses' aureole, Coquette.
"Neat, but not gaudy"?—Soon Despond
(Too soon!) at flouted faith and fond,
Soon tempests halcyon tides above
Shall wreck this raw recruit of Love;
Who counts for gold each tinsel whim,
And hopes thee always all for him,