Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs 
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell 
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well 
Would passion arm me for the enterprise; 
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies; 
No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell; 
I am no happy shepherd of the dell 
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes. 
Yet must I dote upon thee—call thee sweet, 
Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses 
When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication. 
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ‘tis meet, 
And when the moon her pallid face discloses, 
I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.