She Proves the Inconsistency of the Desires and Criticism of Men Who Accuse Women of What They Themselves Cause

Foolish men who accuse

women unreasonably,

you blame yet never see

you cause what you abuse.

You crawl before her, sad,

begging for a quick cure;

why ask her to be pure

when you have made her bad?

You combat her resistance

and then with gravity,

you call frivolity

the fruit of your intents.

In one heroic breath

your reason fails, like a wild

bogeyman made up by a child

who then is scared to death.

With idiotic pride

you hope to find your prize:

a regal whore like Thais

and Lucretia for a bride.

Has anyone ever seen

a stranger moral fervor:

you who dirty the mirror

regret it is not clean?

You treat favor and disdain

with the same shallow mock-

ing voice: love you and you squawk,

demur and you complain.

No answer at her door

will be a proper part:

say no—she has no heart,

say yes—and she's a whore.

Two levels to your game

in which you are the fool:

one you blame as cruel,

one who yields, you shame.

How can one not be bad

the way your love pretends

to be? Say no and she offends.

Consent and you are mad.

With all the fury and pain

your whims cause her, it's good

for her who has withstood

you. Now go and complain!

You let her grief take flight

and free her with new wings.

Then after sordid things

you say she's not upright.

Whois at fault in all

this errant passion? She

who falls for his pleas, or he

who pleads for her to fall?

Whose guilt is greater in

this raw erotic play?

The girl who sins for pay

or man who pays for sin?

So why be shocked or taunt

her for the steps you take?

Care for her as you make

her, or shape her as you want,

but do not come with pleas

and later throw them in

her face, screaming of sin

when you were at her knees.

You fight us from our birth

with weapons of arrogance.

Between promise and pleading stance,

you are devil, flesh, and earth.

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz