The Gift

To Iris, in Bow Street, Covent 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,

Shall 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 them,

If gems or gold impart a joy,

I’ll give them when I get them.

I’ll give—but not the full blown rose,

Or rosebud more in fashion;

Such short-lived 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.