To The Sighing Strephon.

A poem by Lord George Gordon Byron


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.


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 reformed coquette.


But 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.


But since the chaste kiss,
Of this magical Miss,
Such wonderful transports produce,
Since the "world you forget,"
"When your lips once have met,"
My Counsel will get but abuse.


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


I ne'er will advance,
By the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair,
Though a smile may delight,
Yet a frown wont affright,
Or drive me to dreadful despair.


Whilst my blood is thus warm,
I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonist's school;
Of this I am sure,
Was my passion so pure,
My mistress must think me a fool.


Though the kisses are sweet,
Which voluptuously meet,
Of kissing I ne'er was so fond,
As to make me forget,
Though our lips oft have met,
That still there was something beyond.


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!


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.

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