Poem by Oliver Goldsmith

The Gift to Iris

To Iris, In Bow Street, Covent Garden

SAY, cruel IRIS, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make,
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'll give-but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere, than civil:
I'll give thee-Ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee-To the devil. 

1. On Seeing a Lady Perform a Certain Character
2. From the Latin of Vida
3. To G. C. and R. L.
4. The Logicians Refuted
5. Verses in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner at Dr. Baker's

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