I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind
And leave me once again undone, possessed
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity,—let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again