O Jack, don't tease me every day, Go talk to Grace or Nell or May; Why, every time I tell you nay, It only makes you still more bold, As if you never had been told. Dear heart! That little word I pray,— The word which never can grow old, Makes darkness bright and sorrow gay, For which a world is gladly sold, That little word, "I love." That word is but an idle play, Or else another name for gold. The changes on that word you've rolled Till tired of being so cajoled; I've only one thing left to say,— That little word, "I love." |