Wine, No. 25

In the summer's burning heat, When the flowers were blooming sweet, I had chosen, as 'twas meet, 'Neath an olive bough my seat; Languid with the glowing day, Lazy, careless, apt for play.

Stood the tree in fields where grew Painted flowers of every hue, Grass that flourished with the dew, Fresh with shade where breezes blew; Plato, with his style so rare, Could not paint a spot more fair.

Runs a babbling brook hard by, Chants the nightingale on high; Water-nymphs with song reply. "Sure, 'tis Paradise," I cry; For I know not any place Of a sweeter, fresher grace.

While I take my solace here, And in solace find good cheer, Shade from summer, coolness dear, Comes a shepherd maiden near— Fairer, sure, there breathes not now— Plucking mulberries from the bough.

Seeing her, I loved her there: Venus did the trick, I'll swear! "Come, I am no thief, to scare, Rob, or murder unaware; I and all I have are thine, Thou than Flora more divine!"

But the girl made answer then: "Never played I yet with men; Cruel to me are my kin: My old mother scolds me when In some little thing I stray:— Hold, I prithee, sir, to-day!"