The sunflower ever to the sun,
His face turns, lovingly,
But I will smack that face of thine,
If so 'tis turned to me.
Adieu to thee, thy brassy hair,
Thy bold and brazen phiz;
I choose you for my Valentine,
Because you're such a quiz.
Oh! what two delightful creatures.—
Who in London ean compare,
Either in their form or features,—
With so exquisite a pair.
Cupid on a jackass riding,
Points your road out with his dart,
Stuck through what he's just been buying—
At the butcher's shop,—a heart;
Whilst two donkies there behind you,
Portraits of yourselves, we view,
Braying sweetly, both together,
All about their love—like you;
Doubtless, you'll rejoice sincerely,
When you read these friendly lines,
And will thank me for your portraits,
Sent upon Saint Valentine's.
Tempt me no more with your vain forms,
Your nonsense, or your trembling lyre;
Of men like you I have known swarms;
So cease, nor to my hand aspire;
I tell you plainly, Faney's wing,
And your imaginary toys,
To me are nearly the same thing;
The same unmeaning useless toys.
When as Aurora gilds the morn,
I rise from my soft, my peaceful bed,
I bless the time when I was born
To choose the man I'd wish to wed,
But as that's neither thee nor thine,
I will not be thy Valentine.
