5.

  I do not, love, suspect your truth,
    With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not,
  Warm was the passion of my youth,
    One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

6.

  No, no, my flame was not pretended,
    For oh!  I lov’d you most sincerely,
  And though our dream at last is ended,
    My bosom still esteems you dearly.

7.

  No more we meet in yonder bowers,
    Perhaps my soul’s too prone to roving,
  But older, firmer hearts than ours,
    Have found monotony in loving.

8.

  Your cheeks soft bloom is unimpair’d,
    Your beauties still are daily bright’ning,
  Your eye for conquest comes prepar’d,
    The forge of love’s resistless lightning.

9.

  Arm’d thus to make their bosoms bleed,
    Many will throng to sigh like me, love,
  More constant they may prove indeed,
    Fonder alas! they ne’er can be, love!

* * * * *

TO WOMAN.

  Surely experience might have told me,
  That all must love thee, who behold thee;
  Surely experience might have taught,
  A woman’s promises are naught,
  But plac’d in all thy charms before me,
  All I forget, but to adore thee. 
  Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
  When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
  Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating,
  “What oft we’ve done, we’re still repeating.” 
  But how much curst by every lover,
  When hope is fled, and passion’s over. 
  Woman that fair and fond deceiver,
  How prompt are striplings to believe her,
  How throbs the pulse, when first we view,
  The eye that rolls in glossy blue;
  Or sparkles black, or mildly throws,
  A beam from under hazel brows;
  How quick we credit every oath,
  And hear her plight the willing troth;
  Fondly we hope ’twill last for aye,
  When lo! she changes in a day,
  The Record will forever stand,
  “That woman’s vows, are writ in sand.”

* * * * *

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR, PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.

Since the refinement of this polish’d age, Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung’d licentious wit, Which stamp’d disgrace on all an author writ; Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from beauty’s cheek; Oh! let the modest muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence—­though she find not fame.  But not for her alone, we wish respect, Others appear more conscious of defect; To night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear, To