LOVE'S infidel Whom I adore, You know too well That I love you more By a hundred score Than mine eyes or heart! So you'd die before You'd be called "sweet-heart!" But if I could seem To set no store By your esteem, Then you'd love me more By a hundred score Than your eyes or heart, And almost implore To be called "sweet-heart!" "'Tis the way of love That who loves the best The least can he move His Lady's breast." . . . Ah, would I could test The proverb's truth And hate -- in jest -- Till you loved in sooth! |