  IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall I make, Expressive of my duty? My heart, a victim to thine eyes, Should I at once deliver— Say, would the angry fair-one prize The gift, who slights the giver? A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, My rivals give; and let them: If gems or gold impart a joy, I’ll give them—when I get them. I’ll give—but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud, more in fashion— Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose A transitory passion— I’ll give thee something yet unpaid, Not less sincere than civil: I’ll give thee—ah! too charming maid, I’ll give thee to the devil! |
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