And what is love? It is a doll dress’d up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss’s comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warm’d the world,
If Queens and Soldiers have play’d deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I’ll say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.

Two shepherds sat a-piping beneath the olives gray, 
What times three Thracian maidens came singing up the way: 
Two shepherds sat a-courting upon the windy lea, 
But two the tale of shepherds: the shepherd-maids were three. 

Oh, Daphnis sang of Lais, and idle Dion told 
How blue were eyes of Thais, how locked her heart and cold: 
And all the while the olives were sighing soft to see 
That none might bring the grace to sing of white Autonoë. 

There was no grace in any feast that Thais lacked for guest, 
Her coming flushed the pallid East, her going dulled the West. 
Oh, pale when Lais' cheek was nigh each wreathed and rosy shell, 
And birds might put their piping by, sweet Lais sang so well. 

Thais would go silk threads to sew upon a warrior's banner, 
Lais would dwell a queen in hell with ghostly maids to fan her. 
And Daphnis would fare fishing with nets upon the sea, 
And each were fain some grace to gain save white Autonoë. 

They saw the brown sails lifting, they heard the sailors cry, 
And Dion dreamed of drifting past shores where mermaids lie: 
And Daphnis took his idle flute, and blew so tenderly, 
That Thais slept, and Lais wept, and smiled Autonoë. 

Now, out, alas! that summers pass and music lasts not long; 
O'er Dion's bed grow lilies red, and bees make droning song: 
The sea-waves cradle Lais, and only seaweeds see 
If hair and lips of Thais still gold and scarlet be. 

But Daphnis blows upon his flute by Hades' shadowy throne; 
And after him with hasty foot, Autonoë alone, 
A living maid, has followed, who, if she would, could tell 
How fair love makes the tangled brakes and fields forlorn of hell.