Old Figurines

Like as an infant, beaten by its mother
or but half conquered in a wayward quarrel,
tired, falls asleep, with its little fists
tight clenched and with tear-wet eyelids,—

So does my passion, O fair Lalage,
sleep in my bosom; nor thinking, nor caring,
whether in rosy May-time wander playing
the other happy infants in the sun.

O wake 't not, Lalage! or thou shalt hear
my passion, like a very God of battles,
putting an end to sports so innocent,
to flay the very heavens with its raging!