Half-flay the fading cheek and brow, and bid them bloom again.

O listen, Pholoe! with thee are youth and jocund May:
Enjoy to-day! The golden hours are gliding fast away!

Why plague our comely Marathus? Thy chaste severity
Let wrinkled wooers feel,--but not, not such a youth as he!

Spare the poor lad! 'tis not some crime his soul is brooding on;
'Tis love of thee that makes his eyes so wild and woe-begone!

He suffers! hark! he moans thy loss in many a doleful sigh,
And from his eyes the glittering tears flow down and will not dry.

"Why say me nay?" he cries, "Why talk of chaperones severe?
I am in love and know the art to trick a listening ear."

"At stolen tryst and _rendez-vous_ my breath is light and low,
And I can give a kiss so soft not even the winds may know.

"I creep unheard at dead of night along a marble floor,
"Nor foot-fall make, nor tell-tale creak, when I unbar the door.

"What use are all my arts, if still my lady answers nay!
"If even to her couch I came, she'd frown and fly away!

"Or when she says she will, 'tis then she doth most treacherous prove,
"And keeps me tortured all night long with unrewarded love.

"And while I say 'She comes, she comes!' whatever breathes or stirs,