Literary Gazette 27th September 1823, Page 619
EXTRACTS FROM MY POCKET BOOK.
Oh do not talk to me of love,
'Tis deepest cruelty to me;
Why throw a net around the bird
That might be happy, light and free.
It may be sport to win a heart,
Then leave that heart to pine and die;
The vows which now my bosom rend
May not cost you one single sigh.
The love which is as life to me,
Is but a simple toy to you;
The falsehood at which you but smile
Is death to one so fond, so true.
Then do not talk to me of love,
My heart is far too warm for thine;
Go, and 'mid pleasure's lights and smiles,
Heed not what clouds and tears are mine.