T HYRSIS , unjustly you complain,
And tax my tender heart
With want of pity for your pain,
Or sense of your desert.

By secret and mysterious springs,
Alas! our passions move;
We women are fantastic things,
That like before we love.

You may be handsome, and have wit,
Be secret and well-bred,
The person love must to us fit,
He only can succeed.

Some die, yet never are believed;
Others we trust too soon,
Helping ourselves to be deceived,
And proud to be undone.