Such soft confusion could the Moor disarm,
And his rough heart, like Desdemona’s, move;
But soon her easy weakness broke the charm,
And, ere her life she lost, she lost her love.
No—if I hate thee, wherefore should I press
A treach’rous contract with love’s fav’rite seal?
And, if I wish thy future hours to bless,
Ah! why, too soon, that anxious care reveal?
A ready conquest oft’ the victor scorns;
His laurels fade whose foe ere battle yields;