... Belles may read and beaux may write,— I care not who or how; I burnt my Album, Sunday night;— I'm not a lover now! I don't encourage idle dreams Of poison or of ropes; I cannot dine on airy schemes; I cannot sup on hopes: New milk I own is very fine, Just foaming from the cow; But yet I want my pint of wine;— I'm not a lover now! When Laura sings your hearts away, I'm deafer than the deep; When Leonora goes to play, I sometimes go to sleep; When Mary draws her white gloves out, I never dance, I vow,— "Too hot to kick one's heels about!" I'm not a lover now! And this is life! no verdure blooms Upon the withered bough: I save a fortune in perfumes;— I'm not a lover now! |