But no, 'tis o'er, and—thus we part,
Never to meet again—no, never,
False woman, what a mind and heart
Thy treachery has undone forever.
WOMAN.
Away, away—you're all the same,
A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long.
Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that's best in both;
Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,—
More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true, manly lover blest.
Away, away—your smile's a curse—
Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
If e'er I love such things again.
TO …….
Come, take thy harp—'tis vain to muse
Upon the gathering ills we see;
Oh! take thy harp and let me lose
All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.
Sing to me, love!—Though death were near,
Thy song could make my soul forget—
Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,
All may be well, be happy yet.
Let me but see that snowy arm
Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,
Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.