Classic Poem

My Henry, like a modest youth,
Avows his kisses are not sweet,
But if he told the honest truth,
He'd own he thinks them quite a treat!

As good he oft has said before,
And vowed, whatever I might say,
That our coy sex loved even more
Than th'other did this sort of play.

Meek creature sure I must have been
Ere to forgive this heinous speech!
How could those lips a kiss e'er win,
When such the doctrine they dared preach!

And if they be not sweet, good Sir,
Why bid me to so base a feast?
A courteous host would sure demur
To serve a dish unsweet at least!

Oft have I been by you accused
Of a propensity to angling,
Whene'er a modest phrase I used,
Which made us straightway fall a-wrangling;—

You must confess that you surpass
Your mistress in this worthy art,
Yet now you're catching weeds and grass,
(I mean an answer dry and tart;)

Instead of slippery eel or trout,
The meet reward of such good fishing,
Or shining char or turbot stout,
The compliment for which you're wishing!

Am I on such a theme as this
To flatter any saucy youth,
To say he give a honied kiss
With nectar lips?—not I forsooth!

To please an angler so complete
Must I deny his words are true,
And say his mouth is far more sweet
Than full-blown roses bathed in dew?

No! thus much only will I say
Which without bait he might have caught,
That be his lips whate'er they may,
To me they are with sweetness fraught!

No other pair beneath the Moon
To me are either sweet or dear;—
I ceased to view them all too soon—
O! were their owner ever near!