On others wasting all her charming store;
Yet I lack nothing now which could adorn me—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?
I have no learning—in nor school nor college
Could I abide o’er quaint old tomes to pore;
But this I know which passeth all your knowledge—
That Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?
Now come what may, or loss or shame or sorrow,
Sickness, ingratitude or treachery sore,
I laugh to-day and heed not for the morrow—