The Lovesick Boy

WHEN first my old, old love I knew,My bosom welled with joy;My riches at her feet I threw;I was a love-sick boy!No terms seemed too extravagantUpon her to employ—I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense;And love, unchanged will cloy,And she became a bore intenseUnto her love—sick boy!With fitful glimmer burnt my flame,And I grew cold and coy,At last, one morning, I becameAnother's love-sick boy!