Nicholas Rowe

Is this that haughty gallant, gay Lothario?

Is she not more than painting can express, Or youthful poets fancy when they love?

At length the morn and cold indifference came.

As if Misfortune made the throne her seat, And none could be unhappy but the great.

Thou hast prevaricated with thy friend, By underhand contrivances undone me: And while my open nature trusted in thee, Thou hast slept in between me and my hopes, And ravish'd from me all my soul held dear. Thou hast betray'd me.

Your bounty is beyond my speaking; But though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you.

And one false step entirely damns her fame. In vain with tears the loss she may deplore, In vain look back on what she was before; She sets like stars that fall, to rise no more.