To Iris, In Bow Street, Convent Garden Say, Cruel Iris, Pretty Rake, Dear Mercenary Beauty, What Annual Offering Shall I Make, Expressive Of My Duty? My Heart, A Victim To Thine Eyes, Should I At Once Deliver, Say, Would The Angry Fair One Prize The Gift, Who Slights The Giver? A Bill, A Jewel, Watch, Or Toy, My Rivals Give And Let 'Em; If Gems, Or Gold, Impart A Joy, I'll Give Them When I Get 'Em. I'll Give But Not The Full-Blown Rose, Or Rose-Bud More In Fashion; Such Short-Liv'D Offerings But Disclose A Transitory Passion. I'll Give Thee Something Yet Unpaid, Not Less Sincere, Than Civil: I'll Give Thee Ah! Too Charming Maid, I'll Give Thee To The Devil.