The poem
Air Iris I love, and hourly I die, But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye: She's fickle and false, and there we agree, For I am as false and as fickle as she. We neither believe what either can say; And, neither believing, we neither betray. 'Tis civil to swear, and say things of course; We mean not the taking for better or worse. When present, we love; when absent, agree: I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me. The legend of love no couple can find, So easy to part, or so equally join'd.