To Iris, In Bow Street, Convent Garden

SAY, cruel IRIS, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall I make, Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes, Should I at once deliver, Say, would the angry fair one prize The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, My rivals give—and let ’em; If gems, or gold, impart a joy, I’ll give them—when I get ’em.

I’ll give—but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud more in fashion; Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose A transitory passion.

I’ll give thee something yet unpaid, Not less sincere, than civil: I’ll give thee—Ah! too charming maid, I’ll give thee—To the devil.