I cannot happy be till you approve
My hasty condescension to his Love.
’Twas want of Art, not Virtue, was my Crime;
And that’s, I vow, the Author’s Fault, not mine.
She might have made the Women pitiless,
But that had harder been to me than this:
She might have made our Lovers constant too,
A Work which Heaven it self can scarcely do;
But simple Nature never taught the way
To hide those Passions which she must obey.