232 
Love’s Game, or The Bouquet. 
How often may a silly game 
Betray a purpose deep, 
And Love which scarcely owned the name, 
Be by it roused from sleep! 
They met in Fancy’s favorite bower, 
With hearts as free as air, 
Yet Cupid chose that very hour, 
To wing his arrows there. 
A cherished bouquet, torn apart, 
The herald he selected, 
To fling a spell on either heart, 
And thus the plan effected. 
