TO MISTRESS PYRRHA

I What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow,— Meshes that go with your caresses, To snare a fellow? How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly, Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,— You perfect, truly! Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean; He'll soon fall in there! Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For I have been there!