Phillis and Corydon

Phillis took a red rose from the tangles of her hair,—
Time, the Golden Age; the place, Arcadia, anywhere,—
Phillis laughed, the saucy jade: "Sir Shepherd, wilt have this,
Or"—Bashful god of skipping lambs and oaten reeds!—"a kiss?"

Bethink thee, gentle Corydon! A rose lasts all night long,
A kiss but slips from off your lips like a thrush's evening song.

A kiss that goes, where no one knows! A rose, a crimson rose!
Corydon made his choice and took—Well, which do you suppose?