IN FRENCH FIELDS.
65
NI HAINE NI AMOUR.
Of girls unkind, though fair and stately,
This neighbourhood may count a score;
From their hate I have suffered greatly,
But from their love, oh more, still more.
In my brimming cup they have lately
Their poison shed, as oft before,
Hate-potions sometimes, and then straightly
Love-philters, that distress me sore.
But she whose name I love innately,
Who gave the wound that struck the core,
Moves tranquil on her way sedately,
Nor hate, nor love, she bears or bore.
