Each finds the other, that of similar worth;
So just in judgement is the rose of love-
The humbler, rarely melds with nobler birth,
And bright of mind, the dullard will not prove.
The doer suffers not the sluggard well;
The pious not the scourge of wicked heart;
The gallant rarely with the timid dwell;
And truth, of lies, will frequently depart.
But how each chooses each is still unsure
For outward viewers swear that love is blind;
Yet some uncensored gravity immures
A sense of portion that two hearts enshrine.
So why you should choose me, there is no sense,
And for this love, there is no recompense.
©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.