The flirt

A pretty game, my girl,

To play with me so long;

Until this other lover

Comes dancing to thy song,

And my affair is over.

But love, though well adored,

Is not my only note:

So let thy false love-prattle

Be in another man's throat

That weaker man's death-rattle.

Ah, such as thou, at last,

Wilt take a false man's hand:

Think kindly then of me,

When thou'rt forsaken, and

The shame sits on thy knee.