WITH certain rhymes ’tis hard to deal;
For ‘silver’ we have ne’er a rhyme.
On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel)
The bard has slipped full many a time.
With ‘babe’ there’s scarce a sound will chime,
Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove;
But, ye that on Parnassus climb,
Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_?
A rhyme to ‘cusp,’ to beg or steal,
I’ve sought, from evensong to prime,
But vain is my poetic zeal,
There’s not one sound is worth a ‘dime’:
‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ ‘window’—deeds of crime
I’d do to gain the rhymes thereof;
Nor shrink from acts of moral grime—
Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_?
To ‘dove’ my fancies flit, and wheel
Like butterflies on banks of thyme.
‘Above’?—or ‘shove’—alas! I feel,
They’re too much used to be sublime.
I scorn with angry pantomime,
The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as _muv_).
Ah, in Apollo’s golden clime
Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_?