Woe—for the false man's arm around me stealing,
Stole the lull'd Virtue, charm'd to sleep, from me.
5.
Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing,
(Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast,)
Gaily, when I in the dumb grave am lying,
Pour the warm wish, or speed the wanton jest,
Or play, perchance, with his new maiden's tresses,
Answer the kiss her lip enamour'd brings,
When the dread block the head he cradled presses,