Psyche

In her hand the little lamp, and
Mighty passion in her breast,
Psyche creepeth to the couch where
Her dear sleeper takes his rest.

How she blushes, how she trembles,
When his beauty she descries!
He, the God of love, unveil’d thus,
Soon awakes and quickly flies.

Eighteen hundred years’ repentance!
And the poor thing nearly died!
Psyche fasts and whips herself still,
For she Amor naked spied.