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No. 14 - Song - Pope - "I'm sick to death of women."


Pope: I'm absolutely fed up
With all the female sex!
They puzzle and perplex...
I'd like to wring their necks!
You do you best to please 'em,
And then they cut up rough;
I swear I'll have nothing more to do with
Foolish little bits of fluff!
I'm sick to death of women!
Their ways you never can tell;
They make your life a heaven
Or turn it into...
Bagot (spoken): Cheer O! The best of luck!
Pope: The same to you!
(drinking) By Jove! that goes down well!
  Some chaps call women angels,
And all that sort of rot;
That's just what they are not...
I'd like to scrag the lot!
They're absolutely heartless,
They frivol and they flirt;
I've lost ev'ry blessed bit of faith in
Anything that wears a skirt.
I'm sick to death of women!
So no more "cherchez la femme!"
Perhaps you think me spiteful,
But I don't care a...
Napoleon (spoken): Supper is ready sir!
Pope: By Jove! I'm feeling hungry...
Yes, I am!

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