My Muse is fit for any duty.
I love her, stately as a queen
Whom Veronese might have painted,
Blue-eyed, with hair of golden sheen—
That's just the one thing which has been
A trouble since we've been acquainted.
I love not charms I loved before,
Dark as the night, or, say a hearse is.
Now auburn beauty pleases more,
My wasted hours I deplore—