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George Gordon Byron - To Lesbia
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Lesbia! since far from you I`ve ranged,
   Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say `tis I, not you, have changed,
   I`d tell you why,--but yet I know not.

Your polish`d brow no cares have crost;
   And, Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
   Or told my love, with hope grown bolder

Sixteen was then our utmost age,
   Two years have lingering past away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
   At least I feel disposed to stray, love!

`Tis I that am alone to blame,
   I, that am guilty of love`s treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
   Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,
   With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
   One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended,
   For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely;
And--though our dream at last is ended--
   My bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers;
   Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
   Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheek`s soft bloom is unimpeair`d,
   New beauties still are daily bright`ning,
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
   The forge of love`s resistless lightning.

Arm`d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
   Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
   Fonder, alas! they ne`er can be, love!
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