Classic Poem

I'm in love with a widow. I own it. I swear it!
Fill your glasses, and drink me her weal.
Ridicule, disaffection — let none of you dare it;
Real love is too precious, and my love is real.

But first, jolly friends, ere you hasten to pledge her,
Of her virtues I'll briefly descant;
Everything that is charming I'll boldly allege her —
" More virtues than virtue? " Ah, well, that I'll grant.

As a comrade, my widow's seductively sprightly;
Nature made her, and then made no more;
Hours of transport I spend in her company nightly;
I have ceased but to love, I'm a slave, I adore!

The first kiss that I give her deliciously thrills me,
And the next shoots a glow to my heart,
But the madness that finally seizes me, fills me,
Makes me fear my sweet witch, while I bow to her art.

Yet why should I fear her? She fills me with daring,
With great purpose and lofty resolve;
She transports me beyond all annoyance's wearing;
In her smile all my troubles, like vapor, dissolve.

She's kind-hearted, my charmer; for, swayed by her magic.
I am friendly with lover and foe;
And if any man loves her, he'll not find me tragic,
For my widow, dear friends, is the widow Cliquot!