Oh, by my soul, I burn with shame
To think I’ve been your slave so long!
“Slow to be warned, and quick to prove,
From folly kind and cunning loth;
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that’s best in both.
“Still panting o’er a crowd to reign,
More joy it gives to woman’s breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain
Than one true manly lover blest.