Let thought compose a lesson to love’s score

Where wedlock is the measure of the game,

The sweetest blossom beauty ever bore

By different eyes is rarely blessed the same.

While hearts first bleed bright red for novelty

True love bides best as favored floret worn,

Where chasing hopes of grander finery,

By waning odds, oft leaves us more forlorn.

If greener grass lay just beyond the hill

And greater catches further on the main,

By plough or prow we’d swift reward our toil

And hope would bless an ever growing gain.

In love ‘tis best to nurture one dear flower

Than bouquets set to wilt in scarce an hour.