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George Gordon Byron - To The Sighing Strephon
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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.
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