So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
Land of lost gods and godlike men.
Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.