Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/170

130 Eyes like thine were never meant

To hide their orbs in dark restraint;

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,

Still in truant beams they play.

Thy lips—but here my modest Muse

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns,—in short She

Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;

And flying off, in search of Reason,

Brings Prudence back in proper season.

All I shall, therefore, say (whate'er

I think, is neither here nor there,)

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,

Were form'd for better things than sneering.

Of soothing compliments divested,

Advice at least's disinterested;

Such is my artless song to thee,

From all the flow of Flatt'ry free;

Counsel like mine is as a brother's,

My heart is given to some others;

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,

It shares itself among a dozen.

Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not

This warning, though it may delight not;

And, lest my precepts be displeasing,