Mine was picked because I used to play with my food to entertain my children (much to the irritation of someone)
Anyhoo, we were having soup one evening and mucking about when I inadvertently laughed with a mouthful.
I blew the soup out of my nostrils and you can guess the rest.
Ephelia is the pseudonym of a seventeenth-century poetess. I worked on some of her poems when I was a graduate student; she wrote quite a number of 'love poems' but being from the 17C she isn't as 'sickly sweet' as some later love poets are; her style seemed appropriate to this site!
Here's one of my favourites...
To one that asked me why I lov'd J.G.
WHy do I Love? go, ask the Glorious Sun
Why every day it round the world doth Run:
Ask Thames and Tyber, why they ebb and flow:
Ask Damask Roses why in June they blow:
Ask Ice and Hail, the reason, why they're Cold:
Decaying Beauties, why they will grow Old:
They'l tell thee, Fate, that every thing doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to Love.
There is no Reason for our Love or Hate,
'Tis irresistible, as Death or Fate;
'Tis not his Face; I've sense enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me:
Nor is't his Tongue, that has this Conquest won;
For that at least is equall'd by my own:
His carriage can to none obliging be,
'Tis Rude, Affected, full of Vanity:
Strangely Ill natur'd, Peevish and Unkind,
Unconstant, False, to Jealousie inclin'd;
His Temper cou'd not have so great a Pow'r,
'Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous Years that Women so Adore
Are past in him: he's twice my age and more;
And yet I love this false, this worthless Man,
With all the Passion that a Woman can;
Doat on his Imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to Love; I Love, and know not why.
Sure 'tis Decreed in the dark Book of Fate,
That I shou'd Love, and he shou'd be ingrate.