The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self, And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vow He has no thought but Thisbe. Take away Love’s sensual part, which is an appetite, And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law; And what remains is, first, a slight conceit At our discernment in the choice we’ve made, And then a pride that we have won the prize; A pride, that some one thinks we are the best; A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel, Because in every look she manifests Her preference for us. This is flattering Beyond all else that we have ever known. A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed, By showing constantly his own esteem, But never can man’s vanity receive A higher tribute than a woman’s love! This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate, And when together, we increase self-love By mutual words expressing our regard. Yet when our love is deepest, if we find Our Self is not so worshipped as we thought, Our love grows cold; and when we are not loved We cease to love. To illustrate permit: You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love-- A wilder flame than poets ever sung; You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds, And revel in a full assured return. There is no need for check upon your heart, It has full leave to pour its gushing tide Of feeling forth, and meet responsive floods. You meet her in the parlor’s solitude, No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene. The purple curtains hang their corded folds Before the tell-tale windows; closed the door, And sealed with softest list. The rich divan Is drawn before the ruddy grate that glows With red between the bars, and blue above. You sit beside The Angel of your dreams, And gaze in adoration. What a form! Revealed in faultless symmetry by robes Of rare, exquisite elegance, and taste, That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck. And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair! Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”; Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamily Upon the flowers of the vellum-screen That wards the fire from her tinted cheek! One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee, Tapping the tufted lion on the rug; A snowy hand with blazing solitaire-- The pledge of your betrothal--nestling soft Within your own. And thus you sit, and breathe With tones so soft, because the ear’s so near, The mutual confidence of little cares; And how you longed for months to tell your love, But feared a cold rebuke; and how you dared To hope through all the gloom; and how you grieved At every favor shown to other men; How now the clouds have flown away, And all is brightness, joy, and tender love. Then drawing nearer, round the slender waist You pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek,