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Mary Darby Robinson - Sonnet VIII: Why, Through Each Aching Vein
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Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace
Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart, 
While, from its source, each wild convulsive start
Tears the scorch`d roses from my burning face?
In vain, O Lesbian Vales! your charms I trace;
Vain is the poet`s theme, the sculptor`s art;
No more the Lyre its magic can impart,
Though wak`d to sound, with more than mortal grace!
Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove
That passion mocks the empty boast of fame;
Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love,
Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame!
Oh! may th`ecstatic thought in bosom move,
And sighs of rapture, fan the blush of shame!
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