George Gordon Byron

To the Sighing Strephon

1.

   ⁠Your pardon, my friend,
   ⁠If my rhymes did offend,
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er;
⁠   From friendship I strove,
⁠   Your pangs to remove,
But, I swear, I will do so no more.

2.

⁠   Since your beautiful maid,
   ⁠Your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret;
⁠   She's now most divine,
⁠   And I bow at the shrine,
Of this quickly reforméd coquette.

3.

   ⁠Yet still, I must own,
⁠   I should never have known,
From your verses, what else she deserv'd;
⁠   Your pain seem'd so great,
   ⁠I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd.

4.

   ⁠Since the balm-breathing kiss
⁠   Of this magical Miss,
Can such wonderful transports produce;
⁠   Since the "world you forget,
⁠   When your lips once have met,
My counsel will get but abuse.

5.

⁠   You say, "When I rove,"
   ⁠"I know nothing of love;"
'Tis true, I am given to range;
⁠   If I rightly remember,
   ⁠I've lov'd a good number;
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

6.

⁠   I will not advance,
⁠   By the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
⁠   Though a smile may delight,
⁠   Yet a frown will affright
Or drive me to dreadful despair.

7.

⁠   While my blood is thus warm,
⁠   I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists' school;
   ⁠Of this I am sure,
⁠   Was my Passion so pure,
Thy Mistress would think me a fool.

8.

⁠   And if I should shun,
⁠   Every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breast;
⁠   Whom I must prefer,
   And sigh but for her,
What an insult 'twould be to the rest!

9.

   ⁠Now Strephon, good-bye;
⁠   I cannot deny,
Your passion appears most absurd;
⁠   Such love as you plead,
⁠   Is pure love, indeed,
For it only consists in the word.