<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h2><SPAN name="page37"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>A BACHELOR TO A MARRIED FLIRT</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">All</span> that a man can
say of woman’s charms,<br/>
Mine eyes have spoken and my lips have told<br/>
To you a thousand times. Your perfect arms<br/>
(A replica from that lost Melos mould),<br/>
The fair firm crescents of your bosom (shown<br/>
With full intent to make their splendours known),</p>
<p class="poetry">Your eyes (that mask with innocence their
smile),<br/>
The (artful) artlessness of all your ways,<br/>
Your kiss-provoking mouth, its lure, its guile—<br/>
All these have had my fond and frequent praise.<br
/>
And something more than praise to you I gave—<br/>
Something which made you know me as your slave.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet slaves, at times, grow mutinous and
rebel.<br/>
Here in this morning hour, from you apart,<br/>
The mood is on me to be frank and tell<br/>
The thoughts long hidden deep down in my heart.<br
/>
<SPAN name="page38"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>These
thoughts are bitter—thorny plants, that grew<br/>
Below the flowers of praise I plucked for you.</p>
<p class="poetry">Those flowery praises led you to suppose<br/>
You were my benefactor. Well, in truth,<br/>
When lovely woman on dull man bestows<br/>
Sweet favours of her beauty and her youth,<br/>
He is her debtor. I am yours: and yet<br/>
<i>You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt</i>.</p>
<p class="poetry">I owe you for keen moments when you stirred<br
/>
My senses with your beauty, when your eyes<br/>
(Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word<br/>
Your curled lips uttered. You are worldly
wise,<br/>
And while you like to set men’s hearts on flame,<br/>
You take no risks in that old passion-game.</p>
<p class="poetry">The carnal, common self of dual me<br/>
Found pleasure in this danger play of yours.<br/>
(An egotist, man always thinks to be<br/>
The victor, if his patience but endures,<br/>
And holds in leash the hounds of fierce desire,<br/>
Until the silly woman’s heart takes fire.)</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page39"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
39</span>But now it is the Higher Self who speaks—<br/>
The Me of me—the inner Man—the
real—<br/>
Whoever dreams his dream and ever seeks<br/>
To bring to earth his beautiful ideal.<br/>
That lifelong dream with all its promised joy<br/>
Your soft bedevilments have helped destroy.</p>
<p class="poetry">Woman, how can I hope for happy life<br/>
In days to come at my own nuptial hearth,<br/>
When you who bear the honoured name of wife<br/>
So lightly hold the dearest gifts of earth?<br/>
Descending from your pedestal, alas!<br/>
You shake the pedestals of all your class.</p>
<p class="poetry">A vain, flirtatious wife is like a thief<br/>
Who breaks into the temple of men’s souls,<br
/>
And steals the golden vessels of belief,<br/>
The swinging censers, and the incense bowls.<br/>
All women seem less loyal and less true,<br/>
Less worthy of men’s faith since I met you.</p>
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