The pleasure which I own is mine
In sending yon this Valentine,
I trust, on its receipt, may be,
Participated, too, by thee;
And though but few the lines appear,
Their purport is not less sincere;
My object being thus to prove
The firm attachment of my love.
Once more returns the welcome day,
When lovers breathe their tender lay;
And once again would I rehearse
My love to thee, in humble verse.
Yet would I not, with low intent,
As others, write for compliment;
Nor but for fashion now proclaim
A love which ever is the same.
For days may pass, and seasons fail,
My love for thee must still prevail;
Yes, love like mine, as strong as pure,
Through all shall last while life endure.
How hard that my thoughts I must now
To rhyme and to measure confine:
More difficult ’tis you’ll allow,
To find a sincere Valentine.
Though I had the pen of a Pope,
To render harmonious each line;
How could I by poetry hope,
To obtain a sincere Valentine?
On one I need only depend,
I want not the assistance of nine;
May love, then, sweet love, recommend,
A fond and sincere Valentine.
Blithely budding fruits and flowers,
Are coming with the spring-tide hours;
But what are all their charms for me;
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