But few of us who live the life
In single woe or beatitude,
Or take the customary wife,
And raise the regulation brood,
Are really loved at any time
With that fine frenzy which the bards
Have raved about in torrid rhyme.
This fact the wiser man regards
With calm content, if but a few
Who love him not pretend they do.
No lurid loves have been our own,
Which, like snap-dragon, offer sweets,
And burn the fingers to the bone
That dip to take the dainty meats.
A dimpled form, a merry eye,
A kindly heart -- this much for us,
And though she fail to melt and sigh
We shall not make a graceless fuss,
If but she spice a little sense
Of liking with a warm pretence.
We boast unto no great extent
Adoring us made many grieve,
But some have paid the compliment
Of very pretty make-believe;
And looking back on one or two,
On Ruth demure and radiant Rose,
In gratitude we weave a few
Well-meaning rhymes, and here propose
For happy victims -- all the host --
"The Young Pretenders," boys, a toast.
First published in The Bulletin, 31 May 1906
