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?