. The book of ballads . THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ^^s 1A Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn ; AVben my poor quivering hand you lingerd twice. And, with enquiring accents, whisperd, Ice, Water, or cream V I could no more dissemble, But droppd upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o er my brain, The corks seemd starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouchd upon the floor. Thine eves met mine. That night we danced no more !.

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Keywords: ., bookauthormartintheodoresir1816, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840