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A Married Coquette

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sit still, I say, and dispense with heroics!

I hurt your wrists? Well, you have hurt me.

It is time you found out that all men are not stoics,

Nor toys to be used as your mood may be.

I will not let go of your hands, nor leave you

Until I have spoken. No man, you say,

Dared ever so treat you before? I believe you,

For you have dealt only with boys till to-day.

You women lay stress on your fine perception,

Your intuitions are prated about;

You claim an occult sort of conception

Of matters which men must reason out.

So then, of course, when you ask me kindly

"To call again soon," you read my heart.

I cannot believe you were acting blindly;

You saw my passion for you from the start.

You are one of those women who charm without trying;

The clay you are made of is magnet ore,

And I am the steel; yet, there's no denying

You led me to loving you more and more.

You are fanning a flame that may burn too brightly,

Oft easily kindled, but hard to put out;

I am not a man to be played with lightly,

To come at a gesture and go at a pout.

A brute you call me, a creature inhuman;

You say I insult you, and bid me go.

And you? Oh, you are a saintly woman,

With thoughts as pure as the drifted snow.

Pah! you are but one of a thousand beauties

Who think they are living exemplary lives:

They break no commandments, and do all their duties

As Christian women and spotless wives.

But with drooping of lids, and lifting of faces,

And baring of shoulders, and well-timed sighs,

And the devil knows what other subtle graces,

You are mental wantons, who sin with the eyes.

You lure love to wake, yet bid it keep under,

You tempt us to fall, but bid reason control;

And then you are full of an outraged wonder

When we get to wanting you, body and soul.

Why, look at yourself! You were no stranger

To the fact that my heart was already on fire.

When you asked me to call you knew my danger,

Yet here you are, dressed in the gown I admire;

For half of the evil on earth is invented

By vain, pretty women with nothing to do

But to keep themselves manicured, powdered, and scented,

And seek for sensations amusing and new.

But when I play at love at a lady's commanding,

I always am certain to win one game;

So there - there - there! I will leave my branding

On the lips that are free now to cry "Shame, shame!"

You hate me? Quite likely! It does not surprise me,

Brute force? I confess it; but still you were kissed;

And one thing is certain - you cannot despise me

For having been played with, controlled, and dismissed.

And the next time you see that a man is attracted

By the beauty and graces that are not for him,

Don't lead him on to be half distracted;

Keep out of deep waters although you can swim.

For when he is caught in the whirlpool of passion,

Where many bold swimmers are seen to drown,

A man will reach out and, in desperate fashion,

Will drag whoever is nearest him down.

Though the strings of his heart may be wrenched and riven

By a maiden coquette who has led him along,

She can be pardoned, excused, and forgiven,

For innocence blindfolded walks into wrong.

But she who has willingly taken the fetter

That Cupid forges at Hymen's command -

Well, she is the woman who ought to know better;

She needs no mercy at any man's hand.

In the game of hearts, though a woman be winner,

The odds are ever against her, you know;

The world is ready to call her a sinner,

And man is ready to make her so.

Shame is likely, and sorrow is certain,

And the man has the best of it, end as it may.

So now, my lady, we'll drop the curtain,

And put out the lights. We are through with our play.