A stalwart lover, though tant soit peu grim,
I fancied him my thrall.
And was it after all pretence, or whim?
Oh, prospect, to appal!
I know my envious rivals said as much,[1]
But that I deemed their spite,
Was't but my money he desired to clutch?
I lent it—with delight!
Were his mere venal vows? His bonds but such
As SAMSON snapped at sight?