Dost thou do well, dear idol of my heart!
To thrall me in the meshes of thy charms,
To fill my constant soul with soft alarms,
Then coyly thrust me from thy love apart?
Pluck from my breast, O pluck the mystic dart!
Yield—or I perish—to these folding arms!
Assuage the hunger of this sick desire
That wraps me like an aromatic fire!—
O lull with thy ambrosial breath the swarms
Of wounded thoughts that issue from my brain
And seek thy presence, seek thee day and night,
And on thy brow, and eyes, and lips alight,
Extracting aye a honey that is pain!—
O, save me with thy kisses, love, or kill me quite!