"Justine, You Love Me Not"

I know, Justine, you speak me fair
As often as we meet;
And 'tis a luxury, I swear,
To hear a voice so sweet;
And yet it does not please me quite,
The civil way you've got;
For me you're something too polite, —
Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you never scold
At aught that I may do:
If I am passionate or cold,
'Tis all the same to you.
"A charming temper," say the men,
"To smooth a husband's lot":
I wish 'twere ruffled now and then, —
Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you wear a smile
As beaming as the sun;
But who supposes all the while
It shines for only one?
Though azure skies are fair to see,
A transient cloudy spot
In yours would promise more to me, —
Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you make my name
Your eulogistic theme,
And say — if any chance to blame —
You hold me in esteem.
Such words, for all their kindly scope,
Delight me not a jot;
Just so you would have praised the Pope, —
Justine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, for I have heard
What friendly voices tell, —
You do not blush to say the word,
"You like me passing well";
And thus the fatal sound I hear
That seals my lonely lot:
There's nothing now to hope or fear, —
Justine, you love me not!