I'm a boy of all work, a complete little servant, 
Tho' now out of place like a beggar I rove; 
Tho' in waiting so handy, in duty so fervent, 
The heart, could you think it, has turn'd away love. 

He pretends to require, growing older and older, 
A nurse more expert, his chill fits to remove; 
But sure ev'ry heart will grow colder and colder, 
Whose fires are not lighted and fuel'd by love. 

He fancies that friendship, my puritan brother, 
In journies and visits more useful will prove; 
But the heart will soon find when it calls on another, 
That no heart is at home to a heart without love. 

He thinks his new porter, stern-featured suspicion. 
Will falsehood and pain from his mansion reprove, 
But pleasure and truth will ne'er ask for admission, 
If the doors of the heart be not opened by love. 

Too late he will own at his folly confounded, 
My skill at a feast every praise was above, 
For the heart, tho' with sweets in profusion surrounded, 
Must starve at a banquet, unseason'd by love. 

The heart, too, will feel all its influence faulter, 
By me, by me only, that influence throve, 
With the charge of his household, his nature will alter, 
For that heart is no heart, that can turn away love!