Your claims that you are virtuous are hard to reconcile
with the lurid stories told by victims of your guile.
Each one, in the beginning, considered you sublime,
an assessment always altered when they’d known you for a time.
All your avowed compacts of fidelity and marriage
voiced in times of passion in the backseat of your carriage
never were remembered in the glare of a new day.
Your women were like handkerchiefs—used, then thrown away.
All hope you’ll get your just deserts, with someone doing to you
what you have done to others—to first woo and then eschew you.