Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
          Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
          Without that modest softening that enhances
        The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
        That its mild light creates to heal again:
          E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
          E'en then my soul with exultation dances
        For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:
        But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
          Heavens! how desperately do I adore
        Thy winning graces;--to be thy defender
          I hotly burn--to be a Calidore--