Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq., on the Cruelty of his Mistress
The Works of Lord Byron — Poetry — Volume 1
Why, Pigot, complainOf this damsel's disdain,Why thus in despair do you fret?For months you may try,Yet, believe me, a sighWill 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 airsOf these fanciful fairs,They think all our homage a debt:Yet a partial neglectSoon 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 adoreSome 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 forbearTo 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.
October 27, 1806.