Dost bid me, my Lesbia,
A number define,
To fill me, and glut me
With kisses of thine?
When equal thy kisses
The atoms of sand,
By spicy Cyrene
On Lybia's strand,
The sand grains extending
From Ammon's hot shrine,
To the tomb of old Battus,
That land-mark divine.
Or count me the star-lights
That see from above,
In still night, the thievings
Of mortals in love.
Thus canst thou, my Lesbia,
A number assign,
To glut thy mad lover
With kisses of thine.
A number the prying
To reckon may spare;
And gossips, unlucky,
Give up in despair.