OH, if the world were mine, Love, I'd give the world for thee! Alas! there is no sign, Love, Of that contingency. Were I a king—which isn't To be considered now,— A diadem had glistened Upon thy lovely brow. Had fame with laurels crowned me,— She hasn't up to date,— Nor time nor change had found me To love and thee ingrate. If death threw down his gage, Love, Though Life is dear to me, I'd die, e'en of old age, Love, To win a smile from thee. But being poor we part, Dear, And love, sweet love, must die,— Thou wilt not break thy heart, Dear; No more, I think, shall I. |