My heart was pounding, much against my will.
The blood was thudding hard inside my ears.
Upon my brow a subtle glow appeared.
Perhaps an ague was what made me ill.
‘Twas difficult to walk with quaking knees
And difficult to grasp with trembling hands.
My limbs would not obey my mind’s commands.
Perhaps a palsy had o’ertaken me.
My breath was shortened, coming out in gasps.
My palms were damp, no matter what I tried.
My stomach held a hundred buzzing flies.
This problem is a thing that I have grasped:
My illness is not serious, I’m sure;
‘Tis lovesick that I am, without a cure.
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