Then THEODORE his crafty bosom bar'd: —
"This heart," he cried, "by innocence prepar'd,
" Can firmly stand the test, or bravely bleed,
"Should the base arts of hell o'er truth succeed;
" Yet here I vow, by all my hopes in heav'n,
"That by her spells to desperation driv'n,
" I fled before her, scorch'd by mad desire,
"Burnt by the flames of an internal fire;
" Writh'd to the soul, I smart with secret pains,
"For still her magic arts infest my veins."