Again Endorsing The Lady, II

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I thought that I was wholly free,
 That I had Love upon the shelf;
"Hereafter," I declared in glee,
 "I'll have my evenings to myself."
How can such mortal beauty live?
(Ah, Jove, thine errings I forgive!)

Her tresses pale the sunlight's gold;
 Her hands are featly formed and taper;
Her-well, the rest ought not be told
 In any modest family paper.
Fair as Ischomache, and bright
As Brimo. Quæque queen is right.

O goddesses of long ago,
 A shepherd called ye sweet and slender.
He saw ye, so he ought to know;
 But sooth to her ye must surrender.
O may a million years not trace
A single line upon that face!

© Franklin Pierce Adams