To——[1]

1.

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.
2

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.
3

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.
4

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.
5
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?

January, 1807.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.]