Classic Poem

When Mistress Mab averts her eyes
And turns her face away from me,
And views with an assumed surprise
My heart's impetuosity,
I do not sit apart and mope,
And yield to fruitless lamentation
Like one bereft of every hope,
For Phyllis is my consolation.

When Phyllis looks with cold disdain
Upon my wooing, and avers
All hope to win her hand is vain
Because some other she prefers,
You'll find me not downcast with woe,
A sufferer from love's prostration;
I merely take my hat and go
To Daphne for my consolation.

And then when Daphne tells me nay—
She likes me well, but that is all,
And hopes that in a friendly way
I'll still keep up my weekly call,
Think you I sit around and grieve
The finish of that sweet flirtation?
Not I! I run around to Eve
To find my meed of consolation.

When Eve denies she ever meant
To give me reason to suppose
She ever loved to such extent
She'd share my daily joys and woes,
No tears ooze from these eyes of mine,
Nor do I yield to dissipation,
I seek out Susan's eyes divine
And in them find my consolation.

So runs the tale. When dainty Sue
Frowns on my suit no dull regret
Fills up my days, for there are Prue,
And Maude, and Polly, and Babette,
And Jane, and Sarah, Betsy and
A never-ending congregation.
God placed fair maids on every hand
To fill the world with consolation.