Superb coquette of fruits the queen!
Nor apricot nor damascene
With thy voluputous shape can vie.
Nor draw such blushes from the sky.

Until my lady's cheek I kissed,
And eke her brooch of amethyst,
I never found, in earth or air,
A bloom with thine that would compare.

And now that she is mine to bite,
Thy juicy plumpness charms me quite:
If her in vain I do beseech,
I give my kisses to the peach.

Ah! how like thee, inconstant tree,
Her buxom beauty is to me!
This year a mildew, next a frost—
I've learned the story to my cost.

Yet if but one time out of seven
She ripens under glowing heaven,
Each basket of her crimson flame
Is worth an orchard all the same.

I know the bees have stung her sweets
While she was wooing summer's heats,
That on the twig she droops alone,
And that her kernel is a stone.

Still, Princess of the Delaware!
Thou fair and frail, thou rich and rare,
To hold thee true from span to span,
The cell for thee shall be a can.

Then as a Turk in winter's snow
Steals oft to his seraglio,
Thy pantry ardently I reach,
And summer enters with the peach.

Bloom, O, my love! but should'st thou fade,
That passion dies be not afraid;
For by the tree that blessed me so
I'll plant thy seed and thou shalt grow.