  “Helas! vous ne m’aimez pas.”—Piron. I know, Justine, you speak me fair As often as we meet; And ’tis a luxury, I swear, To hear a voice so sweet; And yet it does not please me quite, The civil way you’ve got; For me you’re something too polite— Justine, you love me not! I know, Justine, you never scold At aught that I may do: If I am passionate or cold, ’Tis all the same to you. “A charming temper,” say the men, “To smooth a husband’s lot”: I wish ’twere ruffled now and then— Justine, you love me not! I know, Justine, you wear a smile As beaming as the sun; But who supposes all the while It shines for only one? Though azure skies are fair to see, A transient cloudy spot In yours would promise more to me— I know, Justine, you make my name Your eulogistic theme, And say—if any chance to blame— You hold me in esteem. Such words, for all their kindly scope, Delight me not a jot; Just as you would have praised the Pope— Justine, you love me not! I know, Justine—for I have heard What friendly voices tell— You do not blush to say the word, “You like me passing well;” And thus the fatal sound I hear That seals my lonely lot: There’s nothing now to hope or fear— Justine, you love me not! John Godfrey Saxe. |
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