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George Gordon Byron (Джордж Гордон Байрон)

To ——


Oh! well I know your subtle Sex,
   ⁠Frail daughters of the wanton Eve,—
While jealous pangs our Souls perplex,
   ⁠No passion prompts you to relieve.


From Love, or Pity ne'er you fall,
⁠   By you, no mutual Flame is felt,
'Tis Vanity, which rules you all,
⁠   Desire alone which makes you melt.


I will not say no souls are yours,
⁠   Aye, ye have Souls, and dark ones too,
Souls to contrive those smiling lures,
⁠   To snare our simple hearts for you.


Yet shall you never bind me fast,
⁠   Long to adore such brittle toys,
I'll rove along, from first to last,
   ⁠And change whene'er my fancy cloys.


Oh! I should be a baby fool,
⁠   To sigh the dupe of female art—
Woman! perhaps thou hast a Soul,
   ⁠But where have Demons hid thy Heart?

January, 1807

George Gordon Byron's other poems:
  1. To a Lady who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided with his own, and appointed a Night in December to meet him in the Garden
  2. Lines Addressed to a Young Lady
  3. On the Eyes of Miss A—— H——
  4. To Anne (Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed)
  5. To a Youthful Friend

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