And sold my Reputation for a Song.

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before

I swore—but was I sober when I swore?

   And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand

My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

And much as Wine has play’d the Infidel,

And robb’d me of my Robe of Honour—well,

   I often wonder what the Vintners buy

One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!

That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

   The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,

Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire

To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,

   Would not we shatter it to bits—and then

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know’st no wane,

The Moon of Heav’n is rising once again:

   How oft hereafter rising shall she look

Through this same Garden after me—in vain!

And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass

Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,

   And