But see  her relentless Sire,
Whose Eye-balls sparkl'd with disdainful Ire;
His potent Hand the sounding Locks obey,
With grating Noise the horrid Gates gave way:
Then prostrate at his Feet the Damsel lay.
Three times to speak the lovely Mourner try'd;
Thrice on her Lips the fainting Murmurs dy'd;
Sigh follows Sigh, and Tear succeeds to Tear:
At length she cry'd — Ah! may  hear;
If Nature or if Penitence may sue,
Ah! let my Sorrows find Relief from you;
The nightly Stars my constant Wailings know,
The rising Sun is Witness to my Woe:
But who shall paint what wretched  feels,
While Shame and Famine hunt her flying Heels:
The Fools deride me, and the virtuous shun,
Then to the Fields and lonely Shades I run;
Yet find no Comfort from the lonely Shade,
At my Approach the Blossoms seem to fade:
I fly to Wilds unknown to human Kind,
But cannot leave my hated Self behind;
And am — Oh am I — by my Parent curs'd;
Of all my Woes the deepest and the worst:
She said —  answer'd in a Rage,
Hence vile Disturber of my luckless Age:
Think not by Tears this stubborn Heart to win,
Nor jar my Senses with thy hateful Din:
Go learn of Vagrants (fit Companions) go,
Their Arts of Stealing and their Whine of Woe.
Yet when before the Gate of Pride you stand,
And crave your Morsel at the Porter's Hand;
May some stern Slave prevent the coming Prize,
Thrown to the Dogs before thy longing Eyes:
He ceas'd — but  views no more the Sun,
For now her Sorrow with her Life was done:
Her Eyes no more afford their lucid Streams,
Nor the Pulse struggles in her quiet Veins.