Oh, how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind;
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,
And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me!
Love’s a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee
Suspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!”