O love, love, love,
Love is like a dizziness;
It winna let a puir body
Gang about his business. -- James Hogg

Who loves the glass without the G,
Take away L and that is he. -- Trad.

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put _that_ in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me! -- Leigh Hunt

    Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who hast power                                                                                                   
    To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage,                                                                                                         
    And weep unto a girl; that hast the might,                                                                                                         
    Even with an eye-glance, to choke Mars's drum                                                                                                      
    And turn th' alarm to whispers; that canst make                                                                                                      
    A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him                                                                                                   
    Before Apollo; that mayst force the king                                                                                                            
    To be his subject's vassal, and induce                                                                                                               
    Stale gravity to dance; the poll'd bachelor,                                                                                                         
    Whose youth, like wanton boys through bonfires,                                                                                                      
    Have skipp'd thy flame, at seventy thou canst catch,                                                                                                
    And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat,                                                                                                   
    Abuse young lays of love. What godlike power                                                                                                         
    Hast thou not power upon? To Phoebus thou                                                                                                            
    Add'st flames, hotter than his; the heavenly fires                                                                                                   
    Did scorch his mortal son, thine him. The huntress                                                                                                   
    All moist and cold, some say, began to throw                                                                                                         
    Her bow away, and sigh. Take to thy grace                                                                                                            
    Me thy vow'd soldier, who do bear thy yoke                                                                                                         
    As 'twere a wreath of roses, yet is heavier                                                                                                         
    Than lead itself, stings more than nettles. I                                                                                                      
    Have never been foul-mouth'd against thy law,                                                                                                      
    Nev'r reveal'd secret, for I knew none, would not,                                                                                                   
    Had I kenn'd all that were. I never practiced                                                                                                      
    Upon man's wife, nor would the libels read                                                                                                         
    Of liberal wits. I never at great feasts                                                                                                            
    Sought to betray a beauty, but have blush'd                                                                                                         
    At simp'ring sirs that did. I have been harsh                                                                                                      
    To large confessors, and have hotly ask'd them                                                                                                      
    If they had mothers; I had one, a woman,                                                                                                            
    And women 'twere they wrong'd. I knew a man                                                                                                         
    Of eighty winters -- this I told them -- who                                                                                                               
    A lass of fourteen brided. 'Twas thy power                                                                                                         
    To put life into dust: the aged cramp                                                                                                               
    Had screw'd his square foot round,                                                                                                                  
    The gout had knit his fingers into knots,                                                                                                            
    Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes                                                                                                            
    Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life                                                                                                   
    In him seem'd torture. This anatomy                                                                                                                  
    Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I                                                                                                            
    Believ'd it was his, for she swore it was,                                                                                                         
    And who would not believe her? Brief, I am                                                                                                         
    To those that prate and have done, no companion;                                                                                                   
    To those that boast and have not, a defier;                                                                                                         
    To those that would and cannot, a rejoicer.                                                                                                         
    Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices                                                                                                      
    The foulest way, nor names concealments in                                                                                                         
    The boldest language. Such a one I am,                                                                                                               
    And vow that lover never yet made sigh                                                                                                               
    Truer than I. O then, most soft sweet goddess,                                                                                                      
    Give me the victory of this question, which                                                                                                         
    Is true love's merit, and bless me with a sign                                                                                                      
    Of thy great pleasure. -- Shakespeare