They may talk of love in a cottage
and bowers of trellised vine—
of nature bewitchingly simple,
and milkmaids half divine;
they may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
in the shade of a spreading tree,
and a walk in the fields at morning,
by the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
by the light of a chandelier—
with music to play in the pauses,
and nobody very near;
or a seat on a silken sofa,
with a glass of pure old wine,
and mamma too blind to discover
the small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
your vine is a nest for flies—
your milkmaid shocks the graces,
and simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
and wake with a bug in your ear,
and your damsel that walks in the morning
is shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,
and mightily likes his ease—
and true love has an eye for a dinner,
and starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
his foot’s an invisible thing,
and his arrow is tipped with a jewel,
and shot from a silver string.