A Bachelor To A Married Flirt

All that a man can say of woman's charms,          Mine eyes have spoken and my lips have told     To you a thousand times.    Your perfect arms          (A replica from that lost Melos mould),     The fair firm crescents of your bosom (shown     With full intent to make their splendours known),     Your eyes (that mask with innocence their smile),          The (artful) artlessness of all your ways,     Your kiss-provoking mouth, its lure, its guile -          All these have had my fond and frequent praise.     And something more than praise to you I gave -     Something which made you know me as your slave.     Yet slaves, at times, grow mutinous and rebel.          Here in this morning hour, from you apart,     The mood is on me to be frank and tell          The thoughts long hidden deep down in my heart.     These thoughts are bitter - thorny plants, that grew     Below the flowers of praise I plucked for you.     Those flowery praises led you to suppose          You were my benefactor.    Well, in truth,     When lovely woman on dull man bestows          Sweet favours of her beauty and her youth,     He is her debtor.    I am yours:    and yet     You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt.     I owe you for keen moments when you stirred          My senses with your beauty, when your eyes     (Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word          Your curled lips uttered.    You are worldly wise,     And while you like to set men's hearts on flame,     You take no risks in that old passion-game.     The carnal, common self of dual me          Found pleasure in this danger play of yours.     (An egotist, man always thinks to be          The victor, if his patience but endures,     And holds in leash the hounds of fierce desire,     Until the silly woman's heart takes fire.)     But now it is the Higher Self who speaks -          The Me of me - the inner Man - the real -     Whoever dreams his dream and ever seeks          To bring to earth his beautiful ideal.     That lifelong dream with all its promised joy     Your soft bedevilments have helped destroy.     Woman, how can I hope for happy life          In days to come at my own nuptial hearth,     When you who bear the honoured name of wife          So lightly hold the dearest gifts of earth?     Descending from your pedestal, alas!     You shake the pedestals of all your class.     A vain, flirtatious wife is like a thief          Who breaks into the temple of men's souls,     And steals the golden vessels of belief,          The swinging censers, and the incense bowls.     All women seem less loyal and less true,     Less worthy of men's faith since I met you.