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Poem by Mary Robinson
Sonnet 8. Why, Through Each Aching Vein
Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart, While, from its source, each wild convulsive start Tears the scorch’d roses from my burning face? In vain, O Lesbian Vales! your charms I trace; Vain is the poet’s theme, the sculptor’s art; No more the Lyre its magic can impart, Though wak’d to sound, with more than mortal grace! Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove That passion mocks the empty boast of fame; Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love, Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame! Oh! may th’ecstatic thought in bosom move, And sighs of rapture, fan the blush of shame!
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