Sonnet I To Ariste
Ariste! soon to sojourn with the crowd,
In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go;
Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show,
Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud.
I go: but still my soul remains with thee,
Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms,
Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see,
And every pulse will vibrate with alarms.
When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale,
When envy at a rival’s beauty sighs,
When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail,
And rage and malice fire the gamester’s eyes,
I turn my wearied soul to her for ease,
Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please.
BION.