I am confirmed a woman can 
Love this, or that, or any other man ;
This day she's melting hot,
To-morrow swears she knows you not;
If she but a new object find,
Then straight she's of another mind.
  Then hang me, ladies, at your door,
  If e'er I doat upon you more.

Yet still I love the fairsome (why?
For nothing but to please my eye);
And so the fat and soft-skinn'd dame
I'll flatter to appease my flame ;
For she that's musical I'll long,
When I am sad, to sing a song.
  Then hang me, ladies, at your door,
  If e'er I doat upon you more.

I'll give my fancy leave to range
Through everywhere to find out change;
The black, the brown, the fair shall be
But objects of variety;
I'll court you all to serve my turn,
But with such flames as shall not burn.
  Then hang me, ladies, at your door,
  If e'er I doat upon you more.