Dear, of old I swore devotion
In the manner knights employed,
Wrote epistles with emotion
(Which I trust have been destroyed);
Now at last, a practised lover,
Boasting conquests not a few,
I am told to put a cover
On my sentiments for you.
Cupid's chat is out of fashion;
Sloppy words are never said;
Voices once a-throb with passion
Shake with merriment instead;
Poets qualified to tackle
Lyric metres when inspired
Stoop to make the ladies cackle—
Nothing further is required.
Doubtless one whose occupation
Has a dull and solemn trend
Might enjoy, as relaxation,
Jesting with a female friend;
But, corrupted by the money
That my written humours bring,
How on earth can I be funny
For the pleasure of the thing?