Or powder’d lackey, by some great man’s board,
A deal more solemn than his Lord! 
Know’st thou not, Girl, thine Eros loves to laugh? 
And shall a God do anything by half? 
He foreknew and predestinated all
The Great must pay for kissing things so small,
And ever loves his little Maid the more
The more she makes him laugh.’ 
   ‘O, Mother, are you sure?’
   ’Gaze steady where yon starless deep the gaze revolts,
And say,
Seest thou a Titan forging thunderbolts,
Or three fair butterflies at lovesome play? 
And this I’ll add, for succour of thy soul: 
Lines parallel meet sooner than some think;
The least part oft is greater than the whole;
And, when you’re thirsty, that’s the time to drink.’ 
   ’Thy sacred words I ponder and revere,
And thank thee heartily that some are clear.’ 
   ’Clear speech to men is mostly speech in vain. 
Their scope is by themselves so justly scann’d,
They still despise the things they understand;
But, to a pretty Maid like thee, I don’t mind speaking plain.’ 
   ’Then one boon more to her whom strange Fate mocks
With a wife’s duty but no wife’s sweet right: 
Could I at will but summon my Delight—­’
   ’Thou of thy jewel art the dainty box;
Thine is the charm which, any time, unlocks;
And this, it seems, thou hitt’st upon last night. 
Now go, Child!  For thy sake
I’ve talk’d till this stiff tripod makes my old limbs ache.’

XIV.  PSYCHE’S DISCONTENT.

’Enough, enough, ambrosial plumed Boy! 
My bosom is aweary of thy breath. 
Thou kissest joy
To death. 
Have pity of my clay-conceived birth
And maiden’s simple mood,
Which longs for ether and infinitude,
As thou, being God, crav’st littleness and earth! 
Thou art immortal, thou canst ever toy,
Nor savour less
The sweets of thine eternal childishness,
And hold thy godhead bright in far employ. 
Me, to quite other custom life-inured,
Ah, loose from thy caress. 
’Tis not to be endured! 
Undo thine arms and let me see the sky,
By this infatuating flame obscured. 
O, I should feel thee nearer to my heart
If thou and I
Shone each to each respondently apart,
Like stars which one the other trembling spy,
Distinct and lucid in extremes of air. 
O, hear me pray—­’
                    ’Be prudent in thy prayer! 
A God is bond to her who is wholly his,
And, should she ask amiss,
He may not her beseeched harm deny.’ 
   ’Not yet, not yet! 
’Tis still high day, and half my toil’s to do. 
How can I toil, if thus thou dost renew
Toil’s guerdon, which the daytime should forget? 
The long, long night, when none can work for fear,
Sweet fear incessantly consummated,
My most divinely Dear,
My Joy, my Dread,
Will soon be here! 
Not, Eros, yet! 
I ask, for Day, the use which is the Wife’s: 
To bear, apart from thy delight and thee,