I find my Ovid dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,
Tom Moore for Mr. Mill;
And belles may read, and beaux may write,
I care not who or how;
I burnt my album Sunday night,--
I'm not a lover now!

I don't encourage idle dreams
Of poison or of ropes,
I cannot dine on airy schemes,
I cannot sup on hopes:
New milk, I own is very fine,
Just foaming from the cow;
But yet I want my pint of wine,--
I'm not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away,
I'm deafer than the deep;
When Leonora goes to play,
I sometimes go to sleep;
When Mary draws her white gloves out,
I never dance, I vow:
"Too hot to kick one's heels about!"--
I'm not a lover now!

I'm busy now with state affairs,
I prate of Pitt and Fox;
I ask the price of rail-road shares,