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Until we taste the life of love again. What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain! I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive; And so long absence from thee doth bereave My soul of any rest: yet must I hence Yet, can I not to starry eminence Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own Myself to thee. Ah, dearest! do not groan, Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, And I must blush in heaven. O that I Had done it already! that the dreadful smiles At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, Had waned from Olympus' solemn height, And from all serious Gods; that our delight Was quite forgotten, save of us alone! And wherefore so ashamed? 'Tis but to atone For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes: Yet must I be a coward! Horror rushes Too palpable before me—the sad look Of Jove—Minerva's start—no bosom shook With awe of purity—no Cupid pinion In reverence veil'd—my crystalline dominion Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! But what is this to love? Oh! I could fly With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce— Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown— Oh! I do think that I have been alone In chastity! yes, Pallas has been sighing, While every eye saw me my hair uptying