  hen poets sing of lovers’ woes, And blighted lives and throbs and throes And yearnings—goodness only knows It’s all a pose. I am a poet too, you know, I too was young once long ago, And wrote such stuff myself, and so I ought to know. hen poets sing of lovers’ woes, And blighted lives and throbs and throes And yearnings—goodness only knows It’s all a pose. I am a poet too, you know, I too was young once long ago, And wrote such stuff myself, and so I ought to know. I too found refuge from Despair In sonnets to Amanda’s fair White brow or Nell’s complexion rare Or Titian hair— Which, when she scorned, did I resign To flames, and go into decline? Not much! When sonnets fetched per line Enough to dine. So, reader, when you read in print A poet’s woe—beware and stint Your tears—and take this gentle hint It is his mint. When Julia’s “fair as flowery mead,” Or when she “makes his heart-strings bleed,” Know then she’s furnishing his feed Or fragrant weed— And even as you read—who knows? Like cannibal that eats his foes, He dines off Julia’s “heart that froze,” Or “cheek of Rose.” |
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