The less we show our love to a woman,
Or please her less, and neglect our duty,
The more we trap and ruin her surely
In the flattering toils of philandery.
For, as usual, cold blooded, lechery
Obtains its fame from the science of love,
Always trumpeting to the skies above,
Enjoying itself without a heart.
But this most solemn, serious pastime,
Was fit for baboons of long ago,
Such as were praised in grandad’s time:
The fame of Lovelace is withered now,
Along with the fame of scarlet shoes
And wigs which up to the ceiling rose.