Poetry Archives

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
  With smiles for diet,
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,
  On the quiet?
For whom do you bind up your tresses,
  As spun-gold yellow,—
Meshes that go, with your caresses,
  To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious,
  And curse you duly!
Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,
  You perfect, truly!
Pyrrha, your love’s a treacherous ocean;
  He’ll soon fall in there!
Then shall I gloat on his commotion,
  For I have been there!