Crop, whom you rode—sad rider though you be—
Thenceforth was more than Pegasus to me.
Have I not woo’d your snarling cur to bend
To me the paw and greeting of a friend?
And all his surly ugliness forgave,
Because, like me, he was my Emma’s slave?
Think you, thus charm’d, I would the spell revoke? 190
Alas! my love, we married, and it broke!
Yet no deceit or falsehood stain’d my breast, }
What I asserted might a saint attest; }