Oh! well I know your subtle Sex, Frail daughters of the wanton Eve,-- While jealous pangs our Souls perplex, No passion prompts you to relieve.
From Love, or Pity ne'er you fall, By _you_, no mutual Flame is felt, "Tis Vanity, which rules you all, Desire alone which makes you melt.
I will not say no _souls_ are yours, Aye, ye have Souls, and dark ones too, Souls to contrive those smiling lures, To snare our simple hearts for you.
Yet shall you never bind me fast, Long to adore such brittle toys, I'll rove along, from first to last, And change whene'er my fancy cloys.
Oh! I should be a _baby_ fool, To sigh the dupe of female art-- Woman! perhaps thou hast a _Soul_, But where have _Demons_ hid thy _Heart_?
[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.]
Anne's Eye is liken'd to the _Sun_, From it such Beams of Beauty fall; And _this_ can be denied by none, For like the _Sun_, it shines on _All_.
Then do not admiration smother, Or say these glances don't become her; To _you_, or _I_, or _any other_ Her _Sun_, displays perpetual Summer. [2]
[Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson. From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.]
[Footnote 2: Compare, for the same simile, the lines "To Edward Noel Long, Esq.," p. 187, 'ante'.]
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears; Why thus destroy thine own repose, And dig the source of future tears?
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said Of those who spoke but to beguile.
Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh, If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly, Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, If thou canst venture to believe.
While now amongst thy female peers Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers Duplicity in vain would veil?
These tales in secret silence hush, Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise?
Will not the laughing boy despise Her who relates each fond conceit-- Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, Yet cannot see the slight deceit?