A winsome wench, to the wave as it wimples,
Cometh, hummeth an old-time air;
A wealth of copper-golden hair,
Nose that is straight, and cheeks with dimples,
Eyes coal-black, (might Love inspire!)
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Would kindle like coals, for Love is fire.
If Love be fire, as poet saith,
Why maketh love matches when matches make fire?
Ho! philosopher, vent your ire!
Undistributed middle, i' faith!
"This is not logic!" he'll say so grim.
"Who says it is?" I answer him.
Seven times seven are forty-nine!
Prithee, sweet maid, come be my love!
By flames below, by fires above,
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Appleton Chapel.
