Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751–1816)

THOU canst not boast of Fortune’s store,

My love, while me they wealthy call:

But I was glad to find thee poor,

For with my heart I’d give thee all,

And then the grateful youth shall own,

I loved him for himself alone.

But when his worth my hand shall gain,

No word or look of mine shall show

That I the smallest thought retain

Of what my bounty did bestow:

Yet still his grateful heart shall own,

I loved him for himself alone.