Şiir 7
And the vine wonders why her clusters fall.
Why may not magic act on me the same,
Unstring the nerves, and quite untune the frame!
Gall'd at the heart, and longing to perform,
I rais'd indeed, but rais'd an empty storm;
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Most disappointed when the most propense,
And shame was second cause of impotence.
What limbs I touch'd ! and only touch'd ! oh, fie!
Where was the blissful touch ? her shift can vie
In feasts like these, and touch as well as I.
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Yet to touch her e'en Nestor might grow young,
And centuries, like twenty-one, be strung.
Such was the maid; the parallel had ran
Graceful, if I could add, such was the man.
Some envious deity with vengeance glow'd,
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So sweet a gift had been so ill bestow'd.
I burn to clasp her naked in my arms,
Did she not freely open all her charms ?
What boots good fortune, if we want the pow'r
To snatch the pleasures of the favour'd hour?
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