She Proves the Inconsistency of the Desires and Criticism of Men Who Accuse Women of What They Themselves Cause

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 has withstood
you. Now go and complain!

You let her grief take flight
and free her with new wings.
Then after sordid things
you say she's not upright.

Who is at fault in all
this errant passion? She
who falls for his pleas, or he
who pleads for her to fall?

Whose guilt us greater ub
this raw erotic play?
The girl who sins for pay or
man who pays for sin?

So why be shocked or taunt
her for the steps you take?
Care for her as you make
her, or shaper her as you want,

but do not come with pleas
and later throw thwm in
her face, screaming of sin
when you were at her knees.

You fight us from birth
with weapons of arrogance.
Between promise and pleading stance,
you are devil, flesh, and earth.