By the By
By-the-by ‘though come what may,
And merely flew those words astray,
Here and now ‘tis limp to I,
While your fervour is sooner wry.
Thou naïve still dote a ream,
So, birds quarrel about the stream,
Thus, in fine rely to loathe,
And defy no hint of betroth.
Does a cherub speak ones name,
Aside the courter but in vain,
Yes, me a bullion stone,
To bare foible within your bone.
Hush, this notion so inane,
It ought not be of your pertain,
Be it Sabbath for dim eyes,
Then yearn for moonlight at sunrise.
|