“Forget her,” hissed the lustful nymph on left,
“Of consorts keep not any bed bereft!
Your wooing bears no certainty of fruit,
While ripe is apple yon, with no pursuit!”
“You can,” assuaged the tender sylph on right,
“Prevent the fall to spleen; you can yet fight
For fields of bliss no harvest will exhaust.
So, as my counter say, ‘all is not lost!’”
“The hive is full of honey, Queenless King,
Release your bustling bees and let them sting!”
“All sweetness tastes insipid on loveless tongue;
Your buzzing ring forever must be sung.”
“Confess I shall,” the man began to muse,
“Predestined is my free will Her to choose.”