O' never call me a flirt,
Nor my motion a flirting.
This wavering of the naive heart
Is being caused by looks bewitching.
What fault thou see with wax
If by warmth it gets lax?
If thou insist it to be a sin,
Then the whole of this vice is not mine,
For we are the drafts of HIS making,
And half goes to the Creator divine,
Who created fair creatures of fine line;
And soft, vulnerable he made a male heart
Which can never withstand the maiden art.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem