Sweet, do you wonder how I know.
What you knew doubtless years ago,

That Life is made up of follies and vices,

For though you are young, so young, you go
To the play or ball in a boddice low,

And your hair still curls in a childish way,
An you laugh and sing and jest all day,

In maiden lore of down-dropt eyes;
Nor would your cheeks pale in a pure surprise

Were I to tell you a tender tale,

O Sweet, if ever I tried to speak
The passion that makes us both fierce and weak.

It is left me to think what a woman might be,
Had she your eyes, your laugh of glee,

With just this difference—hear me, Sweet,
Am I hard who yesterday knelt at your feet?—

Her mind should be pure and her heart be young,

Once will I crush your hands in mine,
(I had thought my mother’s ring not too fine

For the dear third finger, but back, my pearl,
You were meant for a purer if plainer girl!)

What! you move away! Well, perhaps it is best;
Your lips are not made to make men rest.