Classic Poem

If Fate is yet so kind to let thee see
This last, last Effort from despairing me;
Me, whom thy Eyes shall lifeless next behold,
Thy Falshood's Victim, ghastly, pale and cold;
Tho' my Life's Lore was frustrate of its End,
Truth's still may reach thee from a dying Friend;
— Was it perfidious! was it then decreed
That only I must for thy Falshood bleed?
Can'st thou, forgetful of thy Fame, begin
To slight thy Ruin, and enjoy the Sin?
Could pride, could honour check thy heart no more,
Fond to be thought that wretched thing — a Wh — re!
That last Extreme of unsurpassing Shame,
A Wh — re! — O ever branded be the Name!
Was it for this in an unguarded Hour,
When Love resign'd you wholly to my Pow'r,
When you with Tears the moving Pray'r addrest,
And hush'd th' unruly Rebel in my Breast?
(What Force wou'd not thy melting Language quell?
Still on my Ear the thrilling Accents dwell!)
Ah what, my dear, dear Cynthio, what can move
This Rage (you cry'd) 'tis Falshood, not your Love?
Has Truth, his Innocence, like mine, no Plea?
Ah, bold! nor let me charge my Fate on thee.
Stabb'd with the Sounds I bad my Heart forbear,
Yes, witness Love, I spar'd the weeping Fair.
For this deny'd my Soul thy pleasing Charms,
— — To lose thee to a treach'rous Rival's Arms.
Sure I was then belov'd, and O! you swore.
That gen'rous Pity still endear'd me more.
False were those Vows, those Tears a specious Feint,
For, oh! the Serpent lurk'd behind the Saint.
My Virtue but your close Resentment rais'd,
Your Heart reproach'd me, while your Flattery prais'd.
— Yet, fair Forsworn, beyond Redemption lost,
Whose scorn'd Affection now no more I boast;
Tho' hurry'd on by an impetuous Gust
Of heedless Passion, and remorseless Lust,
Tho' quite resign'd to Pleasure, you employ
Your utmost Stretch to Vice, and flatt'ring Joy,
Can thy mean Soul to viler Prospects bend,
And to the Guilt of sordid Bribes descend?
To tasteless Age, and swift Disease behold,
The Hire of every Ruffian's Lust for Gold!
Condemn'd to languish out thy Beauty's Prime,
Wretch! shall I think and not reproach the Crime?
O Cynthia , if a bleeding, breaking Heart
Can touch thy senseless Breast with gen'rous Smart,
Hear me, if Pity, Love, or Fate can plead,
If yet thou art not lost to Shame indeed;
Turn, dear Destroyer! 'tis my last Request,
'Tis all thou now canst do to make me blest;
Turn, and prevent thy own untimely Fate,
For mine , alas! I ask not — — 'tis too late.

O hard to Sorrows, which thy Miseries cost!
To all my virtuous Hopes entirely lost;
Torn from my faithful Arms, for ever torn!
Mourn'd by the Youth thy Guilt compels to mourn;
Tho' ne'er must our forbidden Loves renew,
Pleas'd shou'd I, yet, thy wish'd Recovery view;
See thee restor'd, in penitential Charms,
Clasp'd in my blest, but undesiring Arms.
Robb'd of thy Innocence, my dearest Store,
I prize the Hours of joyless Life no more.
My purer Soul, that seeks the happier Sky,
Casts, for thy fear'd Return, a longing Eye;
And waits, but one short Glance, to bless thy Change — — — and die.