By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd,
Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child
Exclaim'd,— “‘ Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing
Before a he-party to sit and to sing!”
“By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,”
Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight
Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear,
Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair:
Tho’ you'd bribe us with songs, blood and‘ ounds! let me say,
I'd not be a woman for one in your way.”