If nothing, Cynthia, can avail
To win thy lost heart back again,
Give way to grief, relinquish life,
'Tis nothing worth, why not complain?
The maiden pride with which thou fain
The fatal passion would subdue,
Itself will strike the murd'rous blow,
Too late shalt thou thy silence rue.
Poor broken heart! thy latest sigh
Shall breathe at last thy secret woe;