ALAS! for any Latmian boy who durst Excite thine ardours, Fame! Thou wilt reject Him in an hour, and leave him, lone, accurst, To shiver through long winters of neglect. Capricious goddess! hugging dead men's bones, Embracing scanty hair'd senility, Or dooméd youths, whose cruel death atones The strange bright sin of being loved by thee, Thy broideries are moss, thy borders mould, And all thy raiment smells of dust and clay, Thy brow is hard, thy narrow lips are cold, Thine eyes belie what thy false mouth doth say: And yet, alluring mistress, turn awhile And snare me also with a single smile! |