Mary Wollstonecraft and Fuseli

Oh, but is it not hard, Dear?
Mine are the nerves to quake at a mouse:
If a spider drops I shrink with fear:
I should die outright in a haunted house;
While for you--did the danger dared bring help--
From a lion's den I could steal his whelp,
With a serpent round me, stand stock-still,
Go sleep in a churchyard,--so would will
Give me the power to dare and do
Valiantly--just for you!

Much amiss in the head, Dear,
I toil at a language, tax my brain
Attempting to draw--the scratches here!
I play, play, practise, and all in vain:
But for you--if my triumph brought you pride,
I would grapple with Greek Plays till I died,
Paint a portrait of you--who can tell?
Work my fingers off for your "Pretty well:"
Language and painting and music too,
Easily done--for you!

Strong and fierce in the heart, Dear,
With--more than a will--what seems a power
To pounce on my prey, love outbroke here
In flame devouring and to devour.
Such love has labored its best and worst
To win me a lover; yet, last as first,
I have not quickened his pulse one beat,
Fixed a moment's fancy, bitter or sweet:
Yet the strong fierce heart's love's labor's due,
Utterly lost, was--you!