O Love! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,
Trumping earth’s kings and queens, and all its suits;
A player, masquerading many parts
In life’s odd carnival;—a boy that shoots,
From ladies’ eyes, such mortal woundy darts;
A gardener pulling heart’s-ease up by the roots;
The Puck of Passion—partly false—part real—
A marriageable maiden’s “beau ideal.”
O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,
Making green misses spoil their work at school;
A melancholy man, cross-gartering?
Grave ripe-fac’d wisdom made an April fool?
A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring?
A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?
A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,
Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?
O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad
With palpitations of the heart—like mine—
A poor bewilder’d maid, making so sad
A necklace of her garters—fell design!
A poet, gone unreasonably mad,
Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?
O Love!—but whither, now? forgive me, pray;
I’m not the first that Love hath led astray.