You’ve seen the fire that smolders,
Down to nothing, and grows a crown of pale ash,
Over its hidden embers,
(Yet a sprinkling of paraffin
Will suffice to rekindle the flame)?
So with the heart.
It grows torpid from lack of worry,
And needs a sharp stimulus to elicit love.
Get her/him anxious about you,
Reheat her/his tepid passions,
Tell her/him your guilty secrets,
And watch her/his cheeks blanch.
Thrice fortunate is that woman/man,
Lucky past calculation,
Who can make some poor injured boy/girl
Torture themselves over her/him, lose voice, go pale, pass out when,
The unwelcome news reaches him/her
Ah! May I be be the one whose hair she tears out in her fury,
The one whose soft cheeks she rips with her nails,
Whom she sees, eyes glaring, through a rain of tears; without whom,
Try as she will, she cannot live!
How long (you may ask) should you leave her lamenting her wrong? A little while only,
Lest rage gather strength through procrastination.
By then you should have her sobbing
All over your chest, your arms tight around her neck.
You want peace?
Appeasement, as in all ‘art of war’:
Culminates in giving her kisses,
And making love while she’s still crying —
That’s the only way to melt her angry mood,
And to live happily thereafter.