Classic Poem

A woman's friendship! God whom I trust in,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin;
Amongst my many other, that I may
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty years, almost, to value it,
That ne'er was known to last above a fit!
Or have the least of good, but what it must
Put on for fashion, and take up on trust:
Knew I all this afore? Had I perceived,
That their whole life was wickedness, though weaved
Of many colours; outward fresh from spots,
But their whole inside full of ends, and knots?
Knew I, that all their dialogues, and discourse,
Were such as I will now relate, or worse?
. . . Here, something is wanting . . .

Knew I this woman? Yes; and you do see,
How penitent I am, or I should be!
Do not you ask to know her; she is worse
Than all ingredients made into one curse,
And that poured out upon mankind can be!
Think but the sin of all her sex, 'tis she!
I could forgive her being proud! A whore!
Perjured! And painted! If she were no more--
But she is such, as she might, yet, forestall
The devil; and be the damning of us all.