I could love thee till I die, <br />Would'st thou love me modestly, <br />And ne'er press, whilst I live, <br />For more than willingly I would give: <br />Which should sufficient be to prove <br />I'd understand the art of love. <br /> <br />I hate the thing is called enjoyment: <br />Besides it is a dull employment, <br />It cuts off all that's life and fire <br />From that which may be termed desire; <br />Just like the bee whose sting is gone <br />Converts the owner to a drone. <br /> <br />I love a youth will give me leave <br />His body in my arms to wreathe; <br />To press him gently, and to kiss; <br />To sigh, and look with eyes that wish <br />For what, if I could once obtain, <br />I would neglect with flat disdain. <br /> <br />I'd give him liberty to toy <br />And play with me, and count it joy. <br />Our freedom should be full complete, <br />And nothing wanting but the feat. <br />Let's practice, then, and we shall prove <br />These are the only sweets of love.<br /><br />John Wilmot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-platonic-lady-2/
