The gift of Iris

IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual offering shall I make,

Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver—

Say, would the angry fair-one prize

The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give; and let them:

If gems or gold impart a joy,

I’ll give them—when I get them.

I’ll give—but not the full-blown rose,

Or rose-bud, more in fashion—

Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose

A transitory passion—

I’ll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil:

I’ll give thee—ah! too charming maid,

I’ll give thee to the devil!