A poem by Thomas Moore

Away, away--you're all the same,
A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
From folly kind, from cunning loath,
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.

Away, away--your smile's a curse--
Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
If e'er I love such things again.

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