Classic Poem

Swear to love and cherish her?
She might moan were beauty's throne
Beauty's sepulchre.

Think her not so new as now,
Staid, with here and there a blur
On her cheek and brow.

Fancy men to change and say,
" No great gods with gifts endow
This fine-feathered jay."

Should infirmity succeed,
Who will each and every day
Rush to his invalid?

Think her little fingers rough,
Tresses thin; her satin brede
Serest sorriest stuff.

Spread a tale that wronged her fame,
Who'd not feel " Of her enough!
Love is a foolish game?"

Grew her love too wild to own,
Who'd not, with some sense of shame,
Hide a secret groan?

Swear to love and cherish her?
She might moan were beauty's throne
Beauty's sepulchre.



1866 (abridged)