True I talk of dreamsWhich are the children of an idle brainBegot of nothing but vain fantasyWhich is as thin of substance as the airAnd more inconstant than the wind who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the northAnd being angerd puffs away from thenceTurning his side to the dew-dropping south.
Our love was covered in fur yet I was the only one who wanted to pet it.