Though I thy Mithridates were,
Framed to defy the poison-dart,
Yet must thou fold me unaware
To know the rapture of thy heart,
And I but render and confess
The malice of thy tenderness.
For elegant and antique phrase,
Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;
Nor have I known a love whose praise
Our piping poets solemnize,
Neither a love where may not be
Ever so little falsity.
More verses by James Joyce
- Watching The Needleboats At San Sabba
- O Cool Is The Valley Now
- Who Goes Amid The Green Wood
- The Ballad Of Persse O'Reilly
- On The Beach At Fontana