She who gives all, and yet withholds her heart,
Gives nothing worthy for a man to take--
Gives as the wanton, who for lucre's sake,
Or passion's solace, plays the selfsame part.
What are the thrills of ecstasy that dart
Out of the senses, if the creature wake
To no more purpose than a lust to slake,
Disguised, howbeit, with decorous art?
But love is sinless; I can never feel
A pang of conscience in thy circling arms,
Howe'er severely with myself I deal.
Perhaps I err, and love may still conceal
His trespass, while his guileful anger warms
Against the mockery serving at his heel.