The poem that has not yet been named

(Pre-poem commentary: I wrote this a bit ago. . . I suppose it's vaguely appropriate for Valentine's Day. As a side note, I do not think it is psychologically possible for me to to write a romantic poem without putting a twist in it.)

If beauty were a fount,
What great waters did abound,
Bursting forth in great amount,
In such maiden as I'd found.

With features soft and beckoning,
Her smile met my glance.
And like a smarting repartee
Quick-humbled my advance.

I stood as possessed by trance,
Dumbfounded at her eyes.
She, seeking my heart to lance,
Declared herself my prize.

And prize, indeed, she surely seemed!
Most perfect of girls that ever were,
As though the best of features dreamed
At their first escape then flocked to her.

'Twere piteous then to gaze,
At the servant at her side.
Any man who spoke kind praise
Was guilty to have lied.

The girl was quite the plainest,
Most unfeatured girl I'd seen.
So young and very ernest,
Yet her looks were very mean.

In one respect she was advantaged--
With a pure and lovely heart,
And in this single virtue managed
To a certain loveliness impart.

Alas, this too, a darkly contrast formed,
For that darling maid she served,
Once I parted, was transformed,
Giving cruelties not deserved.

Yes, from her beauteous lips
The harshest words were sprung.
Vain and arrogant quips,
Like poison tipped her tongue.

In the power of her allure,
Her attraction did not fade.
And I wondered for a cure,
That might give her manners aid.

But soon the time had come,
When my heart was long to marry.
So I embarked for my love's home;
Set no more to tarry.

I arrived in grand procession,
Servants accompanying in score,
Seeking to make a great impression,
As I rang the knocker on the door.

At once appeared the pretty girl,
And I bid her step aside,
Seeking for the homely maid,
I wished to make my bride.