I cannot rove with thee, where zephyrs float--
Sweet sylvan scenes devoted to the loves!--
For, oh! I have not got one decent coat,
Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves.
Gladly I'd wander o'er the verdant lawn,
Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock;
But can I show myself in gills so torn,
Or brave the public gaze in such a stock?
I know _thou_'lt answer me that love is blind,
And faults in one it worships can't perceive;
It must be sightless, truly, not to find
The hole that's gaping in my threadbare sleeve.
Farewell, my love--for, oh! by heaven, we part,
And though it cost me all the pangs of hell.
The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart,
By calling after us--"There goes a swell!"
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