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I own that my habits admit no defence,Nor to speak in their favour pretend;I admit all your charges, acknowledge their sense,But, alas! cannot cease to offend.I possess no more power to subdue my desiresThan straws have the torrent above;Nor is it one only this bosom that fires,But, oh! there are hundreds I love.
If I see a fair girl with a down-gazing eye,Her modesty's ruin to me.—Is she free? I'm enraptured, and think, with a sigh,How amusing and pleasant she'll be.—Are her manners repulsive?—'tis merely pretence,To dissemble a favouring will.—Has she brains? I admire her.—If wanting in sense,Her simplicity pleases me still.