The poem
Love, like a gipsy, lately came, And did me much importune To see my hand, that by the same He might foretell my fortune.
He saw my palm; and then, said he, I tell thee, by this score here, That thou, within few months, shalt be The youthful Prince D'Amour here.
I smiled, and bade him once more prove, And by some cross-line show it, That I could ne'er be Prince of Love, Though here the Princely Poet.