By worthless nap that tickles their vanity,—
O I shall wait some coming woman, I,
Who needs no suing since in soul we suit;
Nor ruling either.—Love shall rule us both.”
“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!—
But all maids grow to us, when wedded once;
For practical, they are, far more than men,
And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish,
Through bait they crave not ere men tender it,
They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn,