The Dear Departed by Edgar Saltus

One by one the guests had gone, and with Trella now there was but a poet who had elevated rhyme to the dignity of a sport. His name was Villiers. In addition to rhyme and other gymnastics less violent, he cultivated paradox. At the moment, he was twisting his painted fingers, fumbling his hostess with his yellow eyes. Then, pontifically, he addressed her:

"There is but one enduring delight -- certainty in love. Certainty that it exists, certainty that it is returned, certainty that it will never diminish."