WHEN first my old, old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;
My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy!
No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ—
I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy!
But joy incessant palls the sense; And love, unchanged will cloy,
And she became a bore intense Unto her love—sick boy!
With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy,
At last, one morning, I became Another's love-sick boy!
