Classic Poem

Curse on this Virtue Constancy,
Of which we're vainly Proud;
It like a Crime doth Torture me,
Since all my softer thoughts of Bliss,
And ev'ry kind and tender Wish,
Is on a careless thankless Swain bestow'd.
I with more ease could bear my Fate,
Forgive his Cruelty,
If stupidly our Sex he hate:
But he doth Smile on every Fair,
The partial Curse I cannot bear,
For, oh he's kind! he's kind! to all but me.