Oh, you are more desirable to me 
Than all I staked in an impulsive hour, 
Making my youth the sport of chance, to be 
Blighted or torn in its most perfect flower; 
For I think less of what that chance may bring 
Than how, before returning into fire, 
To make my dearest memory of the thing 
That is but now my ultimate desire. 
And in old times I should have prayed to her 
Whose haunt the groves of windy Cyprus were, 
To prosper me and crown with good success 
My will to make of you the rose-twined bowl 
From whose inebriating brim my soul 
Shall drink its last of earthly happiness.