Classic Poem

Were they a token those apples,
Tokens of love,
Sent from the warmth of thy bosom
Ardour to prove?
Take all my thanks, dearest maiden, for then
Those apples make me the richest of men.

But if they brought me no promise,
Sure 'twere a shame
Lightly to kindle my passion
Nor quench the flame.
Be not more cruel than Telephus found
Spear of the foeman to cure his wound.