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: Ý From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.

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