Cou'd I forget the honour of my race,
And meet your wishes, fearless of disgrace;
Cou'd passion o'er my tender youth prevail,
And all my mother's pious maxims fail;
Yet to preserve your heart (which still must be,
False as it is, for ever dear to me)
This fatal proof of love I would not give,
Which you'd contemn the moment you receive.
The wretched she, who yields to guilty joys,
A man may pity, but he must despise.
Your ardour ceas'd, I then shou'd see you shun
The wretched victim by your arts undone.
Yet if I cou'd that cold indifference bear,
What more wou'd strike me with the last despair,
With this reflection wou'd my soul be torn,
To know I merited your cruel scorn.