Save to fools who woke its ire,
Thinking fit to play with fire.
'T is the Crescent you admire?
Then, be Diane! I 'll be Francis.
Crescents change,—true!—wax and wane,
Woman-like: male hearts retain
Heat nor, once warm, cool again.
So, we figure—such our chance is—
I as man and you as ... What?