Classic Poem

Love's a fever of the mind,
'Tis a grief that none can cure
Till the nymph you love prove kind:
She can give you ease again,
She can best remove the pain
Which you for her endure.

Be not ever, then, repining,
Sighing, denying, canting, whining;
Spend not time in vain pursuing;
If she does not love you—make her;
If she loves you—then forsake her;
'Tis the modish way of wooing.