THE GIFT

By Oliver Goldsmith

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.