Why, Pigot, complain
Of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try,
Yet, believe me, a _sigh_
Will never obtain a _coquette_.
Would you teach her to love?
For a time seem to rove;
At first she may _frown_ in a _pet;_
But leave her awhile,
She shortly will smile,
And then you may _kiss_ your _coquette_.
For such are the airs
Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our _homage_ a _debt_:
Yet a partial neglect
Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest _coquette_.
Dissemble your pain,
And lengthen your chain,
And seem her _hauteur_ to _regret;_
If again you shall sigh,
She no more will deny,
That _yours_ is the rosy _coquette_.
If still, from false pride,
Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;
Some _other_ admire,
Who will _melt_ with your _fire_,
And laugh at the _little coquette_.
For _me_, I adore
Some _twenty_ or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral,
I'd abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming _coquette_.
No longer repine,
Adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net!
Away with despair,
No longer forbear
To fly from the captious _coquette_.
Then quit her, my friend!
Your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart,
When incens'd by the smart,
Should lead you to _curse_ the _coquette_.