Down, wanton, down!
Have you no shame That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise Your angry head and stand at gaze?
Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach The ravelin and effect a breach— Indifferent what you storm or why,
So be that in the breach you die!
Love may be blind, but Love at least Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires More delicacy from her squires.
Tell me, my witless, whose one boast Could be your staunchness at the post,
When were you made a man of parts To think fine and profess the arts?
Will many-gifted Beauty come Bowing to your bald rule of thumb,
Or Love swear loyalty to your crown?
Be gone, have done!
Down, wanton, down!
