IS Cupid quite the rosy god
That poets try to make him out?
I've known him two-score years and odd,
And, frankly, I begin to doubt.
He has his prizes, I have heard;
I know he has his blanks as well:
In fact, I think, upon my word,
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
Is PLUTUS quite the hero-king
That money-worms would have us think?
And is there, truly, anything
Of music in the metal's clink?
Perhaps you have a heart and brain,
And have a heart and brain to sell!
If not—I think 'tis pretty plain
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
Is Bacchus quite the handsome rake—
The gay and fascinating youth—
That poets paint him when they take
Poetic licences with truth?
When fever'd pulses come with day,
And headaches at your breakfast-bell,
I rather fancy that you 'll say,
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
And is Apollo quite so kind
As people say, to all his sons?
I think that now and then you 'll find
He rather starves his younger ones.
To play the lyre is pretty hard;
It's harder still to play it well.
Depend upon it, brother bard,
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
Of course you can afford to burn
A rushlight, if the stakes be large;
(And when you look for some return
In money for your rushlight's charge.)
But will you lose or will you gain?
That's somewhat difficult to tell;
And, if you lose, it's very plain
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!