Would do anything but die.
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Between my Lady's lithe sad lips,
Where Death like Love, divinely set.
With exquisite sighs and sips,
Feeds and is fed.
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For life is Love and Love is death,
It was my hap, a well-a-day!
To burn my little hour away.
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A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;
The gnomes direct, to every atom just,
The pungent grains of titillating dust,
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.