A hundred causes kindle my desires,And love ne'er wants a torch to light my fires.When on the earth the modest virgin looks,That very modesty of hers provokes;And if I chance to meet a forward fair,I'm taken with her frank and easy air:I figure to myself a thousand charms,A thousand raptures in her wanton arms.If, like the damsels of the Sabine race,She's rude, I look upon it as grimace;That sullen as she seems at first, 'tis art,That I the more may prize the conquest or her heart.New joys, if she's a wit, I hope to find;And with her body, to possess her mind:If foolish, I in that can see no harm,And in her very folly find a charm.