To-day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why.
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
There’s magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move;
See! now with sudden rage he burns,
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns.
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
He comes, without the bow and dart,