Return to these, and so redress thy fate.
Think, Clara, think (nor may that thought be vain!)
Thy slave, thy Harry, doom’d to drag his chain,
Of love ill treated and abus’d, that he
From more inglorious chains might rescue thee.
Thy drooping health restor’d by his fond cares,
Once more thy beauty its full lustre wears.
Mov’d by his love, by his example taught,
Soon shall thy soul, once more with virtue fraught,
With kind and generous truth thy bosom warm,