The Matron

Become a matron, grave and sage,
You, reprehending every page
That pleas'd you not long since, seem now
To ask from under frowning brow,
"Ha! what audacity hath placed
This volume in a hand so chaste?
A volume where fictitious names
Cover, not hide, forbidden flames."
Be merciful! and let him pass;
He is no longer what he was:
He wrote as poets wrote before,
And loved like them . . but rather more.