Is it man or is it demon,
That can seek the heart of woman,
Win the priceless treasure of her love in wear for aye?
Then with a curse to crush this jewel
Who but a demon could be so cruel?
Thoughtlessly amid the busy throng he went his way.
He but seeks a fairer flower,
To beguile his next lone hour;
while the heartless multitude, who know him well, but smile.
If this simple little maiden
(With his curse her heart is laden)
Dares to wear that broken heart upon her sleeve the while.
So with smiles she’s far from feeling,
She must weave a mask, concealing
All her selfish grief beneath a gayety well feigned,
She, perchance, must often meet him,
And with smiles and welcome greet him,
Though her lips are livid and her heart joy is drained.
Though her grief surge like the billow,
She will never wear the willow;
She has learned a bitter lesson that will serve as a defense
‘Gainst the ruling pangs of fashion
Of the fawning fools of fashion;
Warn her to beware believing all a love is fond pretense.
So I prithee heed this warning,
In life’s fair and joyous morning,
Lay not all thy affections at the feet of feigning slave;
for pretended adoration
Often heightens obligation;
and thy friend of yestereven may tomorrow prove a knave.