Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,

A million scarce would quench desire;

Still would I steep my lips in bliss,

And dwell an age on every kiss;

Nor then my soul should sated be,

Still would I kiss and cling to thee:

Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,

Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;

E’en though the numbers did exceed

The yellow harvest’s countless seed;

To part would be a vain endeavour:

Could I desist?–ah! never–never.

November 16, 1806.