The tempest wildly rages, my hair is wet with rain,
But it does not still my longing, or cool my burning pain.
For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of my soul
When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a queen's control.
I fear not pale Octavia—that haughty Roman dame—
My lion of the desert—my Antony can tame.
I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid:
The world holds not the woman of whom I am afraid.
But I'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss,
And I would not that another should share with me that bliss.