Why, Pigot, complain
  Of this damsel’s disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
  For months you may try,
  Yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.

   Would you teach her to love?
   For a time seem to rove;
At first she may frown in a pet;
   But leave her awhile,
   She shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.

   For such are the airs
   Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt:
   Yet a partial neglect
   Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.

   Dissemble your pain,
   And lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;
   If again you shall sigh,
   She no more will deny,
That yours is the rosy coquette.

   If still, from false pride,
   Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical ****** forget;
   Some other admire,
   Who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.

   For me, I adore
   Some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
   Though my heart they enthral,
   I’d abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming coquette.

   No longer repine,
   Adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net!
   Away with despair,
   No longer forbear
To fly from the captious coquette.

  Then quit her, my friend!
  Your ***** defend,
Ere quite with her snares you’re beset:
  Lest your deep-wounded heart,
  When incens’d by the smart,
Should lead you to curse the coquette.