Джордж Гордон Байрон (George Gordon Byron)

Текст оригинала на английском языке

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

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