ES,
I know that you once were my lover,
But that sort of thing has an end,
And though love and its transports are over,
You know you can still be--my friend:
I was young, too, and foolish, remember; (Did you ever hear John Hardy sing?) It was then, the fifteenth of November,
And this is the end of the spring!
You complain that you are not well-treated By my suddenly altering so;
Can I help it?--you're very conceited,
If you think yourself equal to Joe.
Don't kneel at my feet,
I implore you;
Don't write on the drawings you bring;
Don't ask me to say, "I adore you," For, indeed, it is now no such thing.
I confess, when at Bognor we parted,
I swore that I worshipped you then-- That I was a maid broken-hearted,
And you the most charming of men.
I confess, when I read your first letter,
I blotted your name with a tear-- But, oh!
I was young--knew no better,
Could I tell that I'd meet Hardy here?
How dull you are grown! how you worry,
Repeating my vows to be true-- If I said so,
I told you a story,
For I love Hardy better than you!
Yes! my fond heart has fixed on another, (I sigh so whenever he's gone,) I shall always love you--as a brother,
But my heart is John Hardy's alone.
