'Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
What in purchase shall I pay thee
For this little waxen toy,
Image of the Paphian boy?'
Thus I said the other day,
To a youth who pass'd my way:
'Sir,' (he answer'd, and the while
Answer'd all in Doric style,)
'Take it, for a trifle take it;
Think not yet that I could make it;
Pray, believe it was not I;
No-it cost me many a sigh,
And I can no longer keep
Little gods, who murder sleep!'
'Here, then, here,' (I said with joy,)
'Here is silver for the boy:
He shall be my bosom guest,
Idol of my pious breast!'
Little Love! thou now art mine,
Warm me with that torch of thine;
Make me feel as I have felt,
Or thy waxen frame shall melt.
I must burn in warm desire,
Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire.