THE COQUETTE.
How can I be to blame? Is it my fault I am fair?I did not fashion my features, Or brush the gold in my hair;Because my eyes are so blue and bright, Must I never look up from the ground,But put out with my eyelids' snow their light, Lest some foolish heart they should wound?
How can I be in fault? I am sure where hearts are so few,It is difficult to discern The diamonds of paste from the true;I thought him like all the rest, Skilful in playing his part;As careful at cards or at chess, As winning a woman's heart.
I am sure it is nothing wrong, Nothing to think of—and yetI know I lured him with glance and song, Into my shining net;
