George Gordon Byron

To ——

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?