Thy ‘clubs’ shall not parry the aim of my dart.
“Thy armor—thy pleading, and dodging is vain,
Wry faces uncalled for! ’tis hymenial chain
We wish to throw round thee—surrender! I bid—
All woven of roses, the thorns are quite hid.
“A net-work of love shall enshroud thee forever—
(‘Enshroud’ is too icy, it makes Cupid shiver—
Imprison is better—I like the word best—)
When the heart’s taken captive the spirit’s at rest.
“Two short little weeks, out of fifty or more,