Women Like Flames Have A Destroying Power;

In My Conscience I Believe The Baggage Loves Me, For She Never Speaks Well Of Me Herself, Nor Suffers Any Body Else To Rail At Me.

Love's But The Frailty Of The Mind, When 'tis Not With Ambition Joined; A Sickly Flame, Which If Not Fed Expires; And Feeding, Wastes In Self-consuming Fires.

She Likes Herself, Yet Others Hates, For That Which In Herself She Prizes; And While She Laughs At Them, Forgets She Is The Thing That She Despises.

I Am A Fool, I Know It; And Yet, Heaven Help Me, I'm Poor Enough To Be A Wit.

Women Are Like Tricks By Sleight Of Hand, Which, To Admire, We Should Not Understand