And all this morn have nought to do
But pay my duty, love, to you.
“What, silent!—Ah, those looks demure,
And eyes of langour, make me sure
That in my random idle chatter
I quite mistook the matter!
It is not spleen or contemplation
That draws you to the cover;
But ‘tis some tender assignation;
Well!—who’s the favoured lover?