The Platonic Lady

I could love thee till I die,

Would'st thou love me modestly,

And ne'er press, whilst I live,

For more than willingly I would give:

Which should sufficient be to prove

I'd understand the art of love.

I hate the thing is called enjoyment:

Besides it is a dull employment,

It cuts off all that's life and fire

From that which may be termed desire;

Just like the bee whose sting is gone

Converts the owner to a drone.

I love a youth will give me leave

His body in my arms to wreathe;

To press him gently, and to kiss;

To sigh, and look with eyes that wish

For what, if I could once obtain,

I would neglect with flat disdain.

I'd give him liberty to toy

And play with me, and count it joy.

Our freedom should be full complete,

And nothing wanting but the feat.

Let's practice, then, and we shall prove

These are the only sweets of love.