Explore "The Gift to Iris, in Bow Street, Convent Garden" by Oliver Goldsmith on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.