The Peremptory Lover

’T IS not your beauty nor your wit

That can my heart obtain,

For they could never conquer yet

Either my breast or brain;

For if you’ll not prove kind to me,

And true as heretofore,

Henceforth I’ll scorn your slave to be,

And doat on you no more.

Think not my fancy to o’ercome

By proving thus unkind;

No smothered sigh, nor smiling frown,

Can satisfy my mind.

Pray let Platonics play such pranks,

Such follies I deride;

For love at least I will have thanks,—

And something else beside!

Then open-hearted be with me,

As I shall be, I vow,

And let our actions be as free

As virtue will allow.

If you’ll prove loving, I’ll prove kind,—

If constant, I’ll be true;

If Fortune chance to change your mind,

I’ll turn as soon as you.

Since our affections well ye know,

In equal terms do stand,

’T is in your power to love or no,

Mine’s likewise in my hand.

Dispense with your austerity,

Inconstancy abhor,

Or, by great Cupid’s deity,

I’ll never love thee more.