Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And, while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumphed in his pain:
"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride,
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.