Whichever beautiful person I feel affection for becomes my beloved; what is this thing called love, and what kind of temperament is this?
In this couplet, the poet playfully tosses aside the heavy, sacred traditions of solitary devotion in love. Rather than suffering lifelong pining for a single, unattainable beloved, their heart simply falls for whoever is beautiful in that passing moment. It is a wonderfully frank and breezy confession, where the speaker pokes fun at their own fickle temperament and questions what 'love' is even supposed to mean.
Interpretation note: meanings and explanations may be AI-assisted and should not replace a primary text or scholarly edition. See the editorial policy.
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