Foolish men who accuse women unreasonably, you blame yet never see you cause what you abuse. You crawl before her, sad begging for a quick cure; why ask her to be pure when you have made her bad? In one heroic breath your reason fails, like a wild bogeyman made up by a child who then is scared to death. With idiotic pride you hope to find her prize: a regal whore like Thais and Lucretia for a bride. Has anyone ever seen a stranger moral fervor: you who dirty the mirror regret it is not clean? You treat favor and disdain with the same shallow mock- ing voice: love you and you squawk, demur and you complain. No answer at her door will be a proper par: say no--she has no heart, say yes--and she's a whore. Two levels to your game in which you are the fool: one you blame as cruel, one who yields, you shame. How can one not be bad the way your love pretends to be? Say no and she offends. Consent and you are mad. With all the fury and pain your whims cause her, it's good for her who h
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