My Lady
BEDECKED in fashion trim,With every curl a-quiver;Or leaping, light of limb,O’er rivulet and river;Or skipping o’er the leaOn daffodil and daisy;Or stretched beneath a tree,All languishing and lazy;Whatever be her mood—Be she demurely prudeOr languishingly lazy—My lady drives me crazy!In vain her heart is wooed,Whatever be her mood!
What profit should I gainSuppose she loved me dearly?Her coldness turns my brainTo verge of madness merely.Her kiss—though, Heaven knows,To dream of it were treason—Would tend, as I suppose,To utter loss of reason!My state is not amiss;I would not have a kissWhich, in or out of season,Might tend to loss of reason:What profit in such bliss?A fig for such a kiss!