Classic Poem

A SONG .

I'm in love with a lady,
Who's fairer than May day,
But December storms are not colder;
I'm ruin'd forever
Unless I can have her,
And so have I twenty times told her.

To a splinter I'm pining,
To a ghost I'm declining,
You may see the sun shine through my thin sides,
Be twattled, be twitter'd,
To a shadow I'm fritter'd,
And a fricasee's made of my insides.

My tears mix'd with sighs trickle,
But her heart's an icicle,
Which never, I fear, will be melted,
And when I'm alone, sir,
I grunt and I groan, sir,
By the storm of her cruelty pelted.

But she, cruel fair,
Says she should not care,
If I were as dead as a herring,
With a heart like a feather,
She'd go any weather,
And dance all the way to my burying!

Well, since I can't please her,
I'll no longer tease her,
But seek me out some other pretty one,
Who if not quite so killing,
Is a little more willing,
To condescend kindly to pity one.