Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle Fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure,
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee:
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The cloud’s uncertain motion,
They are buttypes of Woman.
O art thou not asham’d
To doat upon a feature?
If Man thou wouldst be nam’d,
Despise the silly creature.
Go, find anhonest fellow,
Good claret setbefore thee,
Hold on tillthou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory!