LOVE.

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.