A coquett is a good deal like a rare bush, in the springtime of life it is full of flowers, and in the fall, full of thorns.
Thare are sum blossoms that are fore-runners of fruit, but the fragrant glory of a coquett is not of this breed.
This pashun iz like avarice, it eats up all the other good ones, and spends its old age, racked with the horrors of an ill digestion. Coquetts are generally long lived, faded emblems of viktorys without honour, mournful az a cypruss, chanting their own dirges.
Prudery iz nothing more than the tropikal fruits of the hearts gardens raized at the north end ov it, prudes, and coquets, are the extremes of the same pashuns, and the philosophers tell us, that “extremes meet.” A prude skorns tew make a conquest, not upon principle, but bekause she kant, she hates a man with her love.
A prude iz nothing more than an ill looking coquet, give the prude buty, and yer have got a coquet, and the bitterest prudes the world ever saw, are the old, and battle worn coquets, who are too decrepid to take the field.
Coquets, and prudes, ought tew be compelled to hunt in couples, so that when the coquet haz wounded the game, the prude kan nuss the dieing viktim.
But prudes and coquetts never agree; two ov a trade seldom do. Both ov these pashuns are disgusting, and the old age ov both iz bitterness.
Prudery iz the remorse ov cunning that haz been foiled; and coquettry seems to be the abandon ov art and buty.
Prudes owe mutch ov their success to their inability to find enny temptashuns, and coquetts are made more viscious by flatterys.
But a true woman dont cultivate neither ov these patches in her heart; the ever elegant perceptions ov her instincts teaches her not to take up the sword ov the coquett, nor the remorseless pruning-hook of the prude.