Accuse me not, inconstant fair,
Of being false to thee,
For I was true, would still been so,
Had'st thou been true to me:
But when I knew thy plighted lips
Once to a rival's prest,
Love-smother'd independence rose,
And spurn'd thee from my breast.

The fairest flow'r in nature's field
Conceals the rankling thorn;
So thou, sweet flow'r! as false as fair,
This once kind heart hast torn:
'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs
That slighted love can feel;
'Tis thine to weep that one rash act,
Which bids this long farewell.