“Then how shall I get you,été my jewel? Sweet Mary,” says I; “If your father and mother’s so cruel, Most surely I’ll die!” “Oh, never say die, dear,” says Mary; “A way now to save you I see; Since my parents are both so contrary— You’d better ask me!” _Samuel Lover._
A PRETTY task, Miss S——, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men. No lover’s plaint my Muse must paint To fill this page’s span, But be correct and recollect I’m not a single man.
Pray only think for pen and ink How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn, Or Love, the life of song! Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan, But one Miss S—— I daren’t address— I’m not a single man.
Scribblers unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart, And in their lays it often plays A rare first-fiddle part: They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if I so began, I have my fears about my ears— I’m not a single man.
Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip be warm, I must be wise about your eyes, And formal with your form; Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T. H. Bayly’s plan, I must not twine a single line— I’m not a single man.
A watchman’s part compels my heart To keep you off its beat, And I might dare as soon to swear At you as at your feet. I can’t expire in passion’s fire, As other poets can— My wife (she’s by) won’t let me die— I’m not a single man.
Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden bow and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart, To Hymen vowed, and not allowed To flirt e’en with your fan, Here end, as just a friend, I must— I’m not a single man. _Thomas Hood._
IT was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed.
That churlish season never frowned On earthly lovers yet: Oh, no! the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met!
’Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed.
What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And when I asked the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud;
And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last. It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed. _Thomas Hood._