Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

Sweet Fanny of Timmol! when first you came in

    To the close little carriage in which I was hurl’d,

I thought to myself, if it were not a sin,

        I could teach you the prettiest tricks in the world.

For your dear little lips, to their destiny true,

    Seem’d to know they were born for the use of another;

And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do,

    Were eternally biting and kissing each other.

And then you were darting from eyelids so sly, —

    Half open, half shutting, — such tremulous light:

Let them say what they will, I could read in your eye

    More comical things than I ever shall write.

And oft as we mingled our legs and our feet,

      I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether

In yours or in mine — but I know it was sweet,

    And I think we both felt it and trembled together.

At length when arriv’d, at our supper we sat,

      I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain,

That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that,

    And Fanny should go back to Timmol again.

Yet I swore not that I was in love with you, Fanny, —

    Oh, no! for I felt it could never be true;

I but said what I’ve said very often to many —

      There’s few I would rather be kissing than you!

Then first did I learn that you once had believ’d

    Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men;

And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceiv’d

    That I thought you perhaps might be tempted again.

But you told me that passion a moment amus’d

    Was follow’d too oft by an age of repenting;

And check’d me, so softly, that while you refus’d,

      Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought ’twas consenting!

And still I entreated, and still you denied,

      Till I almost was made to believe you sincere:

Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you sigh’d,

    And when you repuls’d me, ’twas done with a tear.

In vain did I whisper “There’s nobody nigh;”

      In vain with the tremors of passion implore:

Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply —

      I acknowledg’d them both, and I ask’d for no more.

Was I right? – oh! I cannot believe I was wrong.

    Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again;

And may Providence guide her uninjur’d along,

    Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain!

By Heav’n’ I would rather for ever forswear

    The elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast,

Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there,

    Or banish the dove from so hallow’d a nest!