The female heart by most accounts is fickle

Though none should ever speak that such is true,

For saying so shall find one in a pickle

And so invites a plenitude of rue;

Best speak of romanced practicality

Where hand picked posies are a fitting start,

Followed by bright gems and gold embroideries

For these more surely seem to touch the heart.

Herein then lies this paradox of love

Where wealth, of course, should never mark the man,

Yet full in sterling is love ever proved—

Sweet nothings are but nothing in the end.

The swain that kneels to plead troth for a hand

Improves all chances with a fortune grand!