Classic Poem

Sign of my too presumptuous flame,
To fairest Celia haste, nor linger,
And may she gladly breathe my name,
And gayly put thee on her finger!

Suit her as I myself, that she
May fondle thee with murmured blessing;
Caressed by Celia! Who could be
Unenvious of such sweet caressing?

Had I Medea's magic art,
Or Proteus' power of transformation,
Then would I blithely play thy part,
The happiest trinket in creation!

Oh! on her bosom I would fall,
Her finger guiding all too lightly;
Or else be magically small,
Fearing to be discarded nightly.

And I her ruby lips would kiss
(What mortal's fortune could be better?)
As oft allowed to seal my bliss
As she desires to seal a letter.

Now go, these are delusions bright
Of idle Fancy's idlest scheming;
Tell her to read the token right—
Tell her how sweet is true love's dreaming.