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THE TREACHEROUS WOMAN.

Woman, thou bloom of every danger,
From whose charms my sorrows rise,
To thee I'd live and die a stranger;
He who shuns thee must be wise.
Thy dearest friend is just to doubt thee,
Wise to shun thy hidden snare;
Man is better far without thee,
So deceitful, tho' so fair.
To sport with thee, it is but folly,
Causing many a bitter sigh;
Why, fondness leads to melancholy
And leaves a hopeful wretch to die.
Then, let every wise endeavor
Be thy fondness to evade,
From one slight touch I'm gone forever;
With once my trust in thee betray'd.