Stones from The Quarry | ||
CUPID AND PLUTUS.
Poor Love! thou wilt be bankrupted ere long!Sighs, kisses, billets-doux, bow, œillades, all
Thy stock in trade (if such things we may call
By name so vulgar), not worth an old song!
Thy imaged Self, too! melted down (worst wrong!)
In earthly fires, not heats ethereal
Like thine, into a frying-pan, that shall
Sweet-breads, not sweet-hearts, fry (base use!) among
Things mere-mechanic. O poor Love! thou art
No match for Plutus; thou dost keep thy “books,”
Like billets-doux, mere matters of the heart;
Writ'st not thy bad debts off; discountest looks
And promises to pay “at sight.” Ye start
Not even; thine the baits, but his the hooks!
Stones from The Quarry | ||