To me it matter’d not a tittle;
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmur’d Little.
Through sunny May, through sultry June,
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them to the Sunday Journal:
My mother laugh’d; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling:
My father frown’d; but how should gout