“Is there no way?”—­Here Conscience rose in power, —
“Oh! fly the danger of this fatal hour;
I am thy Conscience, faithful, fond, and true: 
Ah, fly this thought, or evil must ensue;
Fall on thy knees, and pray with all thy soul,
Thy purpose banish, thy design control: 
Let every hope of such advantage cease,
Or never more expect a moment’s peace.” 
   Th’ affrighten’d man a due attention paid,
Felt the rebuke, and the command obey’d. 
   Again the wife rebell’d, again express’d
A love for pleasure—­a contempt of rest;
“She whom she pleased would visit, would receive
Those who pleased her, nor deign to ask for leave.” 
   “One way there is,” said he; “I might contrive
Into a trap this foolish thing to drive: 
Who pleased her, said she?—­I’ll be certain who.” 
“Take heed,” said Conscience “what thou mean’st to do;
Ensnare thy wife?”—­“Why, yes,” he must confess,
“It might be wrong, but there was no redress;
Beside to think,” said he, “is not to sin.” 
“Mistaken man!” replied the power within. 
No guest unnoticed to the lady came,
He judged th’ event with mingled joy and shame;
Oft he withdrew, and seem’d to leave her free,
But still as watchful as a lynx was he;
Meanwhile the wife was thoughtless, cool, and gay,
And, without virtue, had no wish to stray. 
   Though thus opposed, his plans were not resign’d;
“Revenge,” said he, “will prompt that daring mind;
Refused supplies, insulted and distress’d,
Enraged with me, and near a favourite guest —
Then will her vengeance prompt the daring deed,
And I shall watch, detect her, and be freed.” 
   There was a youth—­but let me hide the name,
With all the progress of this deed of shame;
He had his views—­on him the husband cast
His net, and saw him in his trammels fast. 
   “Pause but a moment—­think what you intend,”
Said the roused Sleeper:  “I am yet a friend. 
Must all our days in enmity be spent?”
“No!” and he paused—­“I surely shall repent:” 
Then hurried on—­the evil plan was laid,
The wife was guilty, and her friend betray’d,
And Fulham gain’d his wish, and for his will was paid. 
   Had crimes less weighty on the spirit press’d,
This troubled Conscience might have sunk to rest;
And, like a foolish guard, been bribed to peace,
By a false promise, that offence should cease;
Past faults had seem’d familiar to the view,
Confused if many, and obscure though true;
And Conscience, troubled with the dull account,
Had dropp’d her tale, and slumber’d o’er th’ amount: 
But, struck by daring guilt, alert she rose,
Disturb’d, alarm’d, and could no more repose: 
All hopes of friendship and of peace were past,
And every view with gloom was overcast. 
Hence from that day, that day of shame and sin,
Arose the restless enmity within: 
On no resource could Fulham now rely,
Doom’d all expedients, and in vain, to try;