NO art nor force can unto pity move
Her stony heart, that makes my heart to pant:
No pleading passions of my extreme love
Can mollify her mind of adamant.
Ah, cruel sex, and foe to all mankind!
Either you love, or else you hate, too much!
A glist'ring show of gold in you we find;
And yet you prove but copper in the touch.
But why? O why, do I so far digress?
Nature you made of pure and fairest mould,
The pomp and glory of Man to depress;
And as your slaves in thraldom them to hold:
Which by experience now too well I prove,
There is no pain unto the pains of love.