Mary Wollstonecraft and Fuseli

O but is it not hard, Dear? Mine are the nerves to quake at a mouse: If a spider drops I shrink with fear: I should die outright in a haunted house; While for you—did the danger dared bring help— From a lion's den I could steal his whelp, With a serpent round me, stand stock-still, Go sleep in a churchyard,—so would will Give me the power to dare and do Valiantly—just for you!

Much amiss in the head, Dear, I toil at a language, tax my brain Attempting to draw—the scratches here! I play, play, practise and all in vain: But for you—if my triumph brought you pride, I would grapple with Greek Plays till I died, Paint a portrait of you—who can tell? Work my fingers off for your "Pretty well:" Language and painting and music too, Easily done—for you!

Strong and fierce in the heart, Dear, With—more than a will—what seems a power To pounce on my prey, love outbroke here In flame devouring and to devour. Such love has laboured its best and worst To win me a lover; yet, last as first, I have not quickened his pulse one beat, Fixed a moment's fancy, bitter or sweet: Yet the strong fierce heart's love's labour's due, Utterly lost, was—you!