The Rubáiyát of a Bachelor

ASTE not your evenings in the vain pursuit
Of this or that girl. Bittersweet the fruit!
Better be jocund with them, one and all,
And loving many, thus your love dilute.

OME, with vivacity have sought to charm
Away my fears, and still my soul's alarm;
To win me subtly, with a smile or sigh,
Or sweet appealing touch upon the arm.

THERS have tempted me with festive cheer,
And Chafing-dish Concoctions, quaint and queer;
With dear, domestic airs have plied their arts —
Yet, all their wiles were neither there nor here!

UT when Platonic Friendship they have tried,
Then, to the gods for Mercy, have I cried!
For, in the Husband-hunt, all other snares
Sink into Nothingness, this game beside!

HERE is the Trap, from which you may not flee;
There is the Net, through which no man may see.
Some jest at "love," some talk of "chums," and then,
Into the Consommé, for thee and me!

HETHER to Church, or to the Magistrate,
You follow, after that, 'tis all too late!
For, from your Pipe-dream, you, at last, shall wake,
A MARRIED MAN, to rail in vain at Fate!

OVE, but the Vision of a dear desire!
Marriage, the Ashes, whence has fled the fire!
Cast into chains which you, yourself, have forged!
Caught, like a sheep upon a stray barbed wire!

…

H Thou, who first the Apple Tree didst shake,
And e'en in Eden flirted with the Snake,
Still, as in that first moment 'neath the Bough,
Dost thou, to-day, of Man a puppet make!

UT this I know – whether the one True Mate,
Or just some Fluffy Thing with hook and bait,
Eve-like, tempt me– one flash of Common Sense,
And all her sorcery shall be too late!

HEN, let her never look for me, again;
For, once escaped, how many moons shall wane,
And wax and wane full oft, while still she looks
Down that same street – but ah, for ME, in vain!

ET, much as I have played the Infidel,
If, as the fated Pitcher to the Well,
Too oft to Love's empyrean Font I stray,
To fall, at last, beneath some Siren's spell,

HEN, in your mercy, Friend, forbear to smile,
And with the grape my last few hours beguile,
Or, let me in some Caravanserie,
My Cynic's soul to shackles reconcile.

ND when, with me, some fair, triumphant lass,
Up to the rose-decked Altar-Rail shall pass,
And, in her joyous errand, reach the spot,
Where we're made One– oh, drain a silent glass! Tamam.