HE god of the love-darting bow,
Whose bliss is man's heart to destroy,
Oft contrives to embitter our woe
By a specious resemblance of joy.--
 
Long--long had Architeles sigh'd
The fair Telesippe to gain:
She coolly his passion denied,
Yet seem'd somewhat moved at his pain.
 
At length she consented to hear;
But 'twas done with a view to beguile:
For her terms were most harsh and severe,
And a frown was as good as her smile.
 
"You may freely," says she, "touch my breast,
And kiss, while a kiss has its charms;
And (provided I am not undrest)
Encircle me round in your arms.
 
"In short, my favour you please,
But expect not, nor think of the last:
Lest enraged I revoke my decrees,
And your sentence of exile be cast."--
 
"Be it so," cried the youth, with delight,
"Thy pleasure, my fair one, is mine:
Since I'm blest as a prince at your sight,
Sure to touch thee, will make me divine.
 
"But why keep one favour alone,
And grant such a number beside?"--
"Because the men value the boon
But only so long as denied.
 
"They seek it with labour and pain;
When gain'd, throw it quickly away!
For youth is unsettled and vain,
And its choice scarce persists for a day."
 
--Thus pines the poor victim away,
Forced to nibble and starve on a kiss;
Served worse than e'en eunuchs--for they
Can never feel torture like this.
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