Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend;
Your pardon, a thousand times o’er:
From friendship I strove your pangs to remove,
But, I swear, I will do so no more.
Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret
She’s now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly reformed coquette.
Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
From your verses what else she deserved;
Your pain seem’d so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.
Since the baim-br’eathing kiss of this magical miss
Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the ‘world you forget, when your lips once have met,’
My counsel will get but abuse. You Say,
‘When I rove, I know nothing of love;’
‘Tis true, ’I am given to range;
If I rightly remember, I’ve loved a good number,
Yet there’s pleasure, at least, in a change
I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won’t affright,
Or drlve me to dreadful despair.
While my blood is thus warm I ne’er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists’ school;
Of this l am sure, was my passion so pure,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.
And if I should shun every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breast—
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her—
What an insult 'twould be to the rest!
ow, Strephon, good bye, I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
For it only consists in the word.
Other works by Lord Byron...
To a Lady, Who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided With His Own, and Appointed a Night in December to Meet Him in the Garden
These locks, which fondly thus ent
In firmer chains our hearts confin
Than all th’ unmeaning protestatio
Which swell with nonsense love ora
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve