For it flutters quite false to my aim,
’Tis an age since it fairly went home to a heart,
And the world really jests at my name.
“I have straightened, I’ve bent, I’ve tried all, I declare,
I’ve perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;
’Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear,
And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;
But it falls without touching—I’ll break it, I vow,
For there’s Hymen beginning to pout,
He’s complaining his torch beam’s so dull and so low,