... 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CRADLE SONG by WILLIAM BLAKE ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE [OUT OF NORFOLK] by WILLIAM COWPER APRIL - AND DYING by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH RHENISH AUTUMN; TO TOUSSAINT LUCA by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE THE OLD LINE FENCE by AMERICUS WELLINGTON BELLAW |