Had I, with unbridled passion, Trusting in my strength drawn near, I had soon had cause for fear! She had thrashed me in strange fashion.
How her bosom, neck, throat charm me (Higher I can scarcely see); Ere alone I’d with her be, Pray I that she may not harm me.
’Twas in the Bay of Biscay That she first saw the light; Two kittens in the cradle She squeezed to death outright.
Across the Pyrenees she With feet uncover’d ran; Then for her size gigantic Was shown at Perpignan.
She’s now the grandest dame in The Faubourg Saint-Denis, Where unto small Sir William Some thousand pounds costs she.
Often when I am with thee, Much-beloved and noble lady, The remembrance steals o’er me Of Bologna’s market shady. There a massive fount doth stand-- ’Tis the Giants’ Fountain pretty-- With a Neptune, by the hand Of Giovanni of that city.
Once I thought each kiss a woman Gives us, or receives instead, By some influence superhuman Was from old predestinèd.
I both took and gave back willing Kisses then as earnestly As if I were but fulfilling Actions of necessity.
Kisses are superfluous,--this I Have discover’d on life’s stage, And with small concern now kiss I, Heedless of the surplusage.
Beside the corner of the street We stood in fond communion For full an hour, and talked about Our spirits’ loving union.
We loved each other--this we said A hundred times repeating; Beside the corner of the street We stood, and went on greeting.
The Goddess of Occasion, brisk As waiting maids, and sprightly, Pass’d by that way and saw us stand And smiled, and went on lightly.
In all my dreams by daytime, In all my watchings nightly, Thy sweet delicious laughter Rings through my spirit lightly.
Remember’st Montmorency, Where, on the donkey riding, Thou fell’st among the thistles, From off the saddle gliding?
The ass stood still, the thistles Demurely looking after,-- I never shall forget, love, Thy sweet delicious laughter.
In the garden fair a tree stands, And an apple hangeth there, And around the trunk a serpent Coils himself, and I can ne’er From the serpent’s eyes enchanting Turn away my troubled sight, And he whispers words alluring, And enthrals me with delight.
’Tis the fruit of life thou spyest,-- Its delicious flavour taste, That thy life until thou diest May not be for ever waste! Darling dove, sweet child, no sighing! Quickly taste, and never fear; Follow my advice, relying On thy aunt’s sage counsel, dear.