Temper

YES, Leila, I swore by the fire of thine eyes

I ne’er could a sweetness unvaried endure;

The bubbles of spirit, that sparkling arise,

Forbid life to stagnate, and render it pure.

But yet, my dear maid, though thy spirit’s my pride,

I’d wish for some sweetness to temper the bowl;

If life ne’er be suffered to rest or subside,

It may not be flat, but I fear ’twill be foul.