Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae,—I dinna care,— But ne’er again gar ’t blush sae sair As ye hae dune afore folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet: Sic tales, I doubt, are a deceit; At any rate, it’s hardly meet To pree their sweets afore folk. But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kissed, Gae get a license frae the priest, And mak’ me yours afore folk; Behave yourself afore folk, And when we’re ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak’ ten afore folk. DON JUAN AND HAIDEE. They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; They gazed upon the glittering sea below, Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low, And saw each other’s dark eyes darting light Into each other—and, beholding this, Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss; A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, And beauty, all concentrating like rays Into one focus, kindled from above; Such kisses as belong to early days, When heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, And the blood’s lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake,—for a kiss’s strength, I think, it must be reckoned by its length. By length I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long—no doubt they never reckoned; And if they had, they could not have secured The sum of their sensations to a second: They had not spoken; but they felt allured, As if their souls and lips each other beckoned, Which being joined, like swarming bees they clung— Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. BYRON. THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. Away with your fictions of flimsy romance, Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture that dwells on the first kiss of love! Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more; bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love. I hate you, ye cold compositions of art; Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart Which throbs with delight at the first kiss of love. Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: Arcadia displays but a region of dreams: What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?