The causeless shame felt by the onion
Before the sweetly-scented rose,
My dearest Fet, I should be feeling,
Were I to answer you in prose.
And yet in maiden verse replying,
By sad misgivings I'm beset:
The when and where, yourself please settle—
But come and visit us, dear Fet.
Tho' drought may parch the rye and barley.
Yet still I shall not feel upset