Margaret

Live with the like of him, may I never! When once inside the door comes he, He looks around so sneeringly, And half in wrath: One sees that in nothing no interest he hath: ’Tis written on his very forehead That love, to him, is a thing abhorréd. I am so happy on thine arm, So free, so yielding, and so warm, And in his presence stifled seems my heart.