Thomas Moore

May 28, 1780 - Feb 26, 1852


To Cloe

by Thomas Moore

Imitated from Martial.

I could resign that eye of blue,
Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me;
And though your lip be rich with dew,
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However oft I've raved about it;
And though your heart can beat with bliss,
I think my soul could live without it.

In short, I've learned so well to fast,
That, sooth my love, I know not whether
I might not bring myself at last
To -- do without you altogether!


The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.
Copyright undated, very old
The Walter Scott Publishing Co. Ltd.