But where’s the Woman wou’d not have believ’d Your Arts, and not have been (like me) deceiv’d? Who cou’d your num’rous Oaths and Vows mistrust? Who cou’d have thought that you shou’d prove unjust? The frequent Protestations that you made Wou’d have a Heart more firm than mine betray’d. ’Tis hard to think the Man whom once we love, Shou’d false, shou’d cruel, and ingrateful prove. Nay, I ’m so easie, I ’ve already made } Excuses for you, and wou’d fain perswade } My too too cred’lous Heart, that I am not betray’d. } It was your Converse that at first refin’d My Ignorance, and till then, unpolish’d Mind. ’Twas from your Passion that I caught this Flame That is destructive to my Ease and Fame. In vain ’gainst you I strove my Heart to arm, For you in ev’ry Action had a Charm. Your pleasing Humour, and the Oaths you swore, Made me believe you ever wou’d adore. But now (alas!) those grateful Thoughts are fled, And all my Hopes are with my Pleasures dead: I sigh and weep, a thousand Plagues possess My Soul, and give me not a moment’s Ease. Great were my past Delights, I must confess, } Excessive were the Joys, and vast the Bliss, } But then, oh, cruel Fate! my Miseries were not less.---- } Had I with Artifice e’er drawn you on, And what I most desir’d have seem’d to shun; Had I the cunning Arts of Women us’d, And with feign’d Scorn your gen’rous Love abus’d; Had I my growing Flame with Care supprest When first I felt it rising in my Breast; Nay, when I found I lov’d, had I conceal’d My Passion, nor to you my Soul reveal’d, That for your Hate had been some small Pretence, Which you might now have urg’d in your defence; But---- So far was I from using such Deceit, My Heart was never conscious of a Cheat: And I no sooner of your Passion knew, But frankly I return’d the like to you.---- Yet you, tho’ I was fondly blind, cou’d see, Not ign’rant what the Consequence wou’d be. Why with such Wiles then did you draw me on, To leave me wretched, hopeless, and undone? You knew you shou’d not long continue here, And so did make me love but to despair. Why was I singl’d out alone to be Th’ unhappy Object of your Cruelty?---- Sure in this Country you might those have met Who were for your cross Purposes more fit; Such, who by frequent Use had got the Pow’r To give their Hearts but for the present Hour; Who of your Falshood never wou’d complain, Nor give themselves for you a moment’s Pain. Is ’t like a Lover then to use me so, Me, who ’d give up all I have for you? Is it not rather like a Tyrant done, To ruine and destroy what is your own?