I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor,
No crowd of sycophants to siege my door;
But fortune in one thing at least is tender--For Psyche loves me!
Could I ask for more?
I have no fame, nor to the height of
Will my poor name on tireless pinions soar;
Yet Fate has never drawn my hate upon her--For Psyche loves me1!
Could I ask for more?
I have no station, know no high position,
And never yet the robes of office wore;
Yet I can well afford to scorn ambition--For Psyche loves me!
Could I ask for more?
I have no beauty--beauty has forsworn me,
On others wasting all her charming store:
Yet I lack nothing now which could adorn me--For Psyche loves me!
Could I ask for more?
I have no learning--in nor school nor
Could I abide o'er quaint old tomes to pour;
But this I know which passeth all your knowledge--That Psyche loves me!
Could I ask for more?
Now come what may, or loss or shame or sorrow,
Sickness, ingratitude or treachery sore,
I laugh today and heed not for the morrow--For Psyche loves me--and I ask no more.
