Ladies, before I go, will you allow
A most devoted slave to make his bow?
Brought to your bar, ye most angelic jury,
'Tis you shall try me for my amorous fury.
Have I been guilty, pray, of indecorum?
My ardours were so fierce I could not lower 'em.
Such raging passions I confess an evil;
In flesh and blood like mine they play the devil.
Bound on the rack of love poor I was laid,
Between two fires, a widow and a maid.
My heart, poor scorched dove, now pants for rest;
Where, ladies, shall the flutterer find a nest?
Take pity, fair ones, on the tortured thing,
Heal it and let it once more chirp and sing.
Yet to approach you were infatuation.
If souls like mine, so prone to inflammation,
Should meet your tinder hearts there would be conflagration.
Indeed, so prudent are most men of fashion,
They run no danger for they feel no passion.
Though fairest faces smile, they can defy 'em,
Though softest tongues should plead, they can deny 'em;
Mankind would cease but for such loving fools as I am.
When I amongst them with my ardours glow,
I'm Mount Vesuvius in the midst of snow.
Had I the power, and of each sex were ruler,
I'd warm the one and make the other cooler.
When I address the fair, no art can smother
The mutual flame we kindle in each other.
I'm now electrified—therefore expedient
To fly combustibles! Ladies, your obedient.