In all romances, old and new,
And in all lover’s rhymes
I find one rule that has held true
Since prehistoric times.
The lover must, if he indeed
Be hit by Cupid’s dart,
Grow pale, sigh much, neglect his food,
And wholly lose his heart.
Now fain would I abide this rule
But I, forsooth, grow red
And hot, and stammer like a fool,
And only lose my head.