What mercy or what face? And what saith she,

The hunted, scornéd wretch? Boast that she be

Coveted, hankered, spat on? One to gloat,

The rest to snarl without! If man play goat,

What must she play? Her glory is it to draw

On greedy eye, sting greedy lip and paw,

And find the crown of her desire therein?

Hath she no rarer bliss than all this sin,

Is she for dandling, kissing, hidden up

For hungry hands to stroke or lips to sup?

Hath she then nothing of her own, no mirth

In honesty, nor eyes to worship worth,

Nor pride except in that which makes men dogs,

Nor loathing for the vice wherein, like logs

That float beneath the sun, lie fair women

Submiss, inert receptacles for sin?

Is this her all? Hath she no heart, nor care

Therefor? No womb, nor hope therein to bear

Fruit of her heart's insurgence? Is her face,

Are these her breasts for fondling, not to grace

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