Classic Poem

A woman's face is full of wiles,
Her tears are like the crocadill:
With outward cheer on thee she smiles,
When in her heart she thinks thee ill.

Her tongue still chats of this and that,
That aspen leaf it wags more fast;
And as she talks she knows not what,
There issues many a truthless blast.

Thou far dost take thy mark amiss
If thou think faith in them to find;
The weathercock more constant is,
Which turns about with every wind.

Oh, how in pity they abound!
Their heart is mild, like marble stone:
If in thyself no hope be found
Be sure of them thou gettest none.

I know some pepper-nosid dame
Will term me fool, and saucy jack,
That dare their credit so defame
And lay such slanders on their back:

What though on me they pour their spite?
I may not use the glozer's trade,
I cannot say the crow is white,
But needs must call a spade a spade.