To a Brown Girl

What if his glance is bold and free,
His mouth the lash of whips?
So should the eyes of lovers be,
And so a lover’s lips.

What if no puritanic strain
Confines him to the nice?
He will not pass this way again,
Nor hunger for you twice.

Since in the end consort together
Magdalen and Mary,
Youth is the time for careless weather:
Later, lass, be wary.