Had I A Man'S Fair Form, Then Might My Sighs Be Echoed Swiftly Through That Ivory Shell Thine Ear, And Find Thy Gentle Heart; So Well Would Passion Arm Me For The Enterprize: But Ah! I Am No Knight Whose Foeman Dies; No Cuirass Glistens On My Bosom'S Swell; I Am No Happy Shepherd Of The Dell Whose Lips Have Trembled With A Maiden'S Eyes. Yet Must I Doat Upon Thee, Call Thee Sweet, Sweeter By Far Than Hybla'S Honied Roses When Steep'D In Dew Rich To Intoxication. Ah! I Will Taste That Dew, For Me 'Tis Meet, And When The Moon Her Pallid Face Discloses, I'll Gather Some By Spells, And Incantation.