In vain I have struggled
It will not do.
My feelings will not be repressed.
You must allow me to tell you how
Ardently I admire and
Love you, that is
Your erect bearing notwithstanding
Nor the haughty nature of your
Nay, my love for you,
O Master of Pemberley,
Depends not upon your innumerable
Not upon your income
(At a mere thirty-thousand pounds a year)
Nor the outline of your figure
Against the handsome cut of your
I love your proud and terrible
Your elegant carriage nor
Your illustrious personage.
I find delight in your keen
Delectable repartee, not
Your rolling estates
Your admirable rooms
(Comparable to Chatsworth in Derbyshire)
Your vast grounds.
No, I love you for you,
O delicious, delightful Fitzwilliam.
Although you wouldn’t be quite so handsome
If you weren’t quite so rich.
This was an exercise in a college poetry class, which was to take a line from a book and write a poem. I think everyone dug deep, but I went the flippant route where I stole liberally from the 1995 BBC miniseries version of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.