I SOUGHT to sing of Chloe's eyes In vain; and next to Daphne's hair Began poetic eulogies Without success; would fain prepare A triolet to Doris. Doris, disdainful, did refuse To serve as subject for my Muse, And so did cruel Chloris. Undaunted yet, I next essayed A sonnet to a serving-maid, Whose name, of course, was Phyllis; But Phyllis, equally unkind, To be a poet's theme declined, As likewise Amaryllis. Persistent still, though oft denied, Another flame I found and tried A ballad upon Phoebe; Yet Phoebe, obviously huffed To be so late a choice, rebuffed Me: Next on Dianème A would-be rondeau turned to prose. My muse and I had come to blows, But that the lamp went out. Instead, I took the hint, and went to bed! |