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Eugene Field - Horace To Pyrrha
Work rating: Low

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
  With smiles for diet,
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,
  On the quiet?
For whom do you bind up your tresses,
  As spun-gold yellow,—
Meshes that go, with your caresses,
  To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious,
  And curse you duly!
Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,
  You perfect, truly!
Pyrrha, your love`s a treacherous ocean;
  He`ll soon fall in there!
Then shall I gloat on his commotion,
  For I have been there!
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