When we play at love,
The war begins
Between all who lust
And she who never sins.
So then we die for love
Until war ends,
Because none who trust love
Find the bliss Cynthia sends.
The moon throws her light,
Cold, cold, cold,
Upon lovers who languish,
Upon lovers growing old.
Love, like the world,
Grows old, love, and dies
And fades like bright flowers
Under the sadness which is Cynthia’s.
This sad light of hers
Is too dim to dim the stars.
Isn’t the war splendid tonight?
Can you see the falling cars?