  My heart’s a merry rover, Though innocent of wrong; Forever beauty’s lover, Yet never constant long. When coral lips are pouting, Their smiling to disguise, He kneels and loves, not doubting They are his richest prize. Yet when, amid his dreaming, He spies a bosom fair, At once the rogue is scheming To gain admittance there; Though should he see the tresses That frame a pretty head, His love and his caresses He spends on them instead. Then, if bright eyes confuse him With many a saucy stare, The lips, the curls, the bosom Must mourn their worshipper. And yet this merry rover Is nothing if not true, He’s but one maiden’s lover, And, dearest, she is you. |
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