Oh, I think I've figured it out: I'm so bouncy and smiley simply because I am chronically depressed.
Oh yes, please text me that "it's love's detail"
And promise marriage ere we've talked fr'intents
But hours, to ask how I earn money hence,
Whileas ye ditch me cuz I don't in pale
Excuse have sure employment, and t'avail
That's what I've feared: love false, as each want cents
When they quip "****." And I knew't. Good sense.
True love, shan't care for her purse: love is bail.
I stoop low for the purple violets, stir
Twixt taller grasses that wee morsel's cue
Of deepest sorrow: cuz I am as twere
Myself a violet, lost and trodden through
The years, and full of grief, yet smiling too,
For that's our lot. Ai! Is love always poor?!
And for the octet: my mother, and several of my brothers have assured me that IF a man truly loves a woman, he will not care at all that she's penniless. I've known a few true lovers, then, been engaged once to one such, but for the most part am hit upon by fakes.