Parsons' Pleasure

Parsons' Pleasure

Parsons' Pleasure

Parsons' Pleasure


Of a Child That Had Fever

I bid you, mock not Eros

Lest Eros mock with you.

His is a hot distemper

That hath no feverfew.

Love, like a child in sickness,

Brilliant, languid, still,

In fiery weakness lying,

Accepts, and hath no will.

See, in that warm dispassion

Less grievance than surprise,

And pitiable brightness

In his poor wondering eyes.

Oh delicate heat and madness,

Oh lust unnerved and faint:

Sparkling in veins and fibers,

Division and attaint!

I bid you, mock not Eros;

He knows not doubt or shame,

And, unaware of proverbs,

The burnt child craves the flame.

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