Thomas Gainsborough's Mrs. Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Mrs. Richard

Such love, such hateful love.

The hate that comes when love mustn’t be.

She is not mine, nor ever will be,

Belonging forever to another man.

Her gentle figure held by night,

But not by he who cares as I,

By one who thrives on hateful love.

And yet I have her still.

Her grace lies in the hanging branches,

Her glorious eyes shine from the heavens,

For natures beauty and she,

Are one and the same to me.

Her rosy cheeks are what they say,

The bright little flowers grown.

She gazes at me with wistful visage,

Her coils of soft hair whisp with wind,

And a singe tear, might I see,

Drip from her lovely lash.

For hateful love is hers,

Such love is hers, but not alone.