Labour long I did not rue, Ere I won my wages due, And the prize I played for drew. Flora with her brows of laughter, Gazing on me, breathing bliss, Draws my yearning spirit after, Sucks my soul forth in a kiss: Where's the pastime matched with this? Oh, the joys of this possessing! How unspeakable the blessing Of my Flora's loveliness! Truly mine is no harsh doom, While in this secluded room Venus lights for me the gloom! Flora faultless as a blossom Bares her smooth limbs for mine eyes; Softly shines her virgin bosom, And the breasts that gently rise Like the hills of Paradise. Oh, the joys of this possessing! How unspeakable the blessing When my Flora is the prize! From her tender breasts decline, In a gradual curving line, Flanks like swansdown white and fine. On her skin the touch discerneth Naught of rough; 'tis soft as snow: 'Neath the waist her belly turneth Unto fulness, where below In Love's garden lilies blow. Oh, the joys of this possessing! How unspeakable the blessing! Sweetest sweets from Flora flow! Ah! should Jove but find my fair, He would fall in love, I swear, And to his old tricks repair: In a cloud of gold descending As on Danae's brazen tower, Or the sturdy bull's back bending, Or would veil his godhood's power In a swan's form for one hour. Oh, the joys of this possessing! How unspeakable the blessing! How divine my Flora's flower! A third "poem of privacy" may be employed to temper this too fervid mood. I conceive it to be meant for the monologue of a lover in the presence of his sweetheart, and to express the varying lights and shades of his emotion. THE LOVER'S MONOLOGUE. No. 35. Love rules everything that is: Love doth change hearts in a kiss: Love seeks devious ways of bliss: Love than honey sweeter, Love than gall more bitter. Blind Love hath no modesties. Love is lukewarm, fiery, cold; Love is timid, overbold; Loyal, treacherous, manifold. Present time is fit for play: Let Love find his mate to-day: Hark, the birds, how sweet their lay! Love rules young men wholly; Love lures maidens solely. Woe to old folk! sad are they. Sweetest woman ever seen, Fairest, dearest, is my queen; And alas! my chiefest teen. Let an old man, chill and drear, Never come thy bosom near; Oft he sleeps with sorry cheer, Too cold to delight thee: Naught could less invite thee. Youth with youth must mate, my dear. Blest the union I desire; Naught I know and naught require, Better than to be thy squire.