Woman, wilding of flesh, is but fair,
tender, her mercies, light is her heart;
she cannot be wooed by mere idle dare,
nor torn from sorrow when tears depart.
Do not strive then to capture her beauty,
still your verve, for she wields her own;
gallantry, when called, is honorous duty,
but she has will to pull sword from stone.
Woman is made to man’s stalwart pleasure,
but for her progress, she’s born untamed;
she is not ruled by force willed measure,
she cannot be won, nor can she be named.
Woman, if desirous in offering her flesh,
should be plied, held soft, and lyric bade;
for if she is, in anguish, wanton of caress,
one slip of the hand, and she is unmade.
Dare not, trifle played, speak to her of love,
for she would not say, e’er in gentle reply,
that your tongue had e’er bade her fond of,
neither would she move, nor breathe a sigh.
Ply your breath to her lips, if e’er you speak,
let sunlight gather the warmth in her eyes,
then you shall have the stillness you seek,
and with acquiesce, so too, have her sighs.