I fear it may be deem’d a fault,
A lady should reveal a thought,
So unexpected and unsought,
Yet, why the truth disguise?
I dreamt last night—what is the sign?—
I dreamt that you were dress’d all fine,
And were indeed my Valentine—
Oh, what a strange surmise!
Yet, by the million ’tis suppos’d,
Dreams many secrets have disclos'd,
And therefore I am really pos'd
To know what is the sign:
I’ve therefore taken up the pen,
Although averse to write to men,
And beg you’ll answer—are you then
My destin’d Valentine?
Dear youth, I do accept your heart,
And value much the prize;
For tho’ you ne’er did tell your love,
I read it in your eyes.
I know, and much approve your worth,
And to your suit incline;
Then let us meet with love and truth
To hail sweet Valentine.
If against prudence I offend,
Let lovely Venus stand my friend,
And plead for me, and send her Son,
He is to blame for what I’ve done:
’Twas he who prompted my design,
To write to you, my Valentine,
And I on him must lay the blame,
’Twas he alone who rais’d the flame
That now does in my bosom burn,
To which I ask a kind return.
Make not the subject, sir, your jest,
But set my aching heart at rest.
