Unfailing her reply to woman’s voice
     In supplication instant.  Is it man’s,
     She hears, approves his words, her garden scans,
     And him:  the flowers are various, he has choice. 
     Perchance his wound is deep; she listens long;
     Enjoys what music fills the plaintive song;
     And marks how he, who would be hawk at poise
     Above the bird, his plaintive song enjoys.

     She reads him when his humbled manhood weeps
     To her invoked:  distraction is implored. 
     A smile, and he is up on godlike leaps
     Above, with his bright Goddess owned the adored. 
     His tales of her declare she condescends;
     Can share his fires, not always goads and rends: 
     Moreover, quits a throne, and must enclose
     A queenlier gem than woman’s wayside rose. 
     She bends, he quickens; she breathes low, he springs
     Enraptured; low she laughs, his woes disperse;
     Aloud she laughs and sweeps his varied strings. 
     ’Tis taught him how for touch of mournful verse
     Rarely the music made of two ascends,
     And Beauty’s Queen some other way is won. 
     Or it may solve the riddle, that she lends
     Herself to all, and yields herself to none,
     Save heavenliest:  though claims by men are raised
     In hot assurance under shade of doubt: 
     And numerous are the images bepraised
     As Beauty’s Queen, should passion head the rout.

     Be sure the ruddy hue is Love’s:  to woo
     Love’s Fountain we must mount the ruddy hue. 
     That is her garden’s precept, seen where shines
     Her blood-flower, and its unsought neighbour pines. 
     Daughter of light, the joyful light,
     She bids her couples face full East,
     Reflecting radiance, even when from her feast
     Their outstretched arms brown deserts disunite,
     The lion-haunted thickets hold apart. 
     In love the ruddy hue declares great heart;
     High confidence in her whose aid is lent
     To lovers lifting the tuned instrument,
     Not one of rippled strings and funeral tone. 
     And doth the man pursue a tightened zone,
     Then be it as the Laurel God he runs,
     Confirmed to win, with countenance the Sun’s.

     Should pity bless the tremulous voice of woe
     He lifts for pity, limp his offspring show. 
     For him requiring woman’s arts to please
     Infantile tastes with babe reluctances,
     No race of giants!  In the woman’s veins
     Persuasion ripely runs, through hers the pains. 
     Her choice of him, should kind occasion nod,
     Aspiring blends the Titan with the God;
     Yet unto dwarf and mortal, she, submiss
     In her high Lady’s mandate, yields the kiss;
     And is it needed that Love’s daintier brute
     Be snared as hunter, she will tempt pursuit. 
     She is great Nature’s