To a Beautiful Coquette

Say on; if I but hear thy lipsMake music with their balmy breath,It is enough! I do not askThat they revoke their doom of death.

Yes, I did take the poisoned cupFrom thy fair hand, and madly drink;And now, when I have found 'tis death,Now, even now, I do not shrink.

Speak! tell me that my fevered brainWas phrensied when I've thought thou'st smiled;That the sweet hope I nursed so longWas ill-begotten—Fancy's child.

Call me thy slave—a fond, mad fool—Thou'lt say, alas, one mournful truth,For I have wasted in this dreamThe best of life, the pride of youth.

Say this, and more, and with the scornThat suits thee better than thy smile,Thy frown, though bitter, can not harm—'Tis in the sweetness lurks the guile!

Ay, let thy proud lip wear for meThe scornful curve it graces so;The challenge may perchance call forthMy slumbering pride—I do not know.

Yet hardly still can I despiseThe falsehood that hath been so sweet;Hardly, when thinking on our past,My burning words of scorn repeat.

Yet do I scorn thee; in my soulMy nobler nature spurns thy art;And though my senses are enthralled,A higher shrine must have my heart.

Go, fair enchantress; not thy brow,Or lip, or cheek, or witching grace,Or seeming worth, can ever winIn this changed heart a lasting place.