bid me not to love too well,
To clip my fancy's wings;
Not to believe the tales she'll tell,
Nor listen when she sings.
Perchance the lesson may be good;
But, ah! I have no choice;
The saucy fairy will intrude,
Whene'er she hears your voice.
And pertly mimicking your air,
So wise, and so demure;
I quite forget her, and declare
It is not fancy, sure.
And when she shakes her beauteous head,
What rainbow lustre glows!
What floods of light are round her shed,
Which all her charms disclose.
I start, and, fearful of her wiles,
Would turn a deafened ear;
And then so much like you she smiles,
I cannot choose, but hear.
She tells me, reason gave her leave,
And bids me not to fear;
Tells me, you never will deceive,---
You are what you appear.
And this she says, so sweetly calm,
And looks so much like you,
She quiets every vain alarm,
And I believe her true.
An intricate argument on female intimacy, pairing a
personified "fancy" (the speaker's imagination) with a friend
has apparently warned the speaker not to get too close; a "self-