Sans Souci
I CANNOT tell what this love may beThat cometh to all but not to me.It cannot be kind as they’d imply,Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?It cannot be joy and rapture deep,Or why do these gentle ladies weep?It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said,Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?
If love is a thorn, they show no witWho foolishly hug and foster it.If love is a weed, how simple theyWho gather and gather it, day by day!If love is a nettle that makes you smart,Why do you wear it next your heart?And if it be neither of these, say I,Why do you sit and sob and sigh?