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Rh O ! dear unhappy maid, Forbear the weaknes to upbraid Which ought your corn to move; I know this beauty fale and vain, I know he triumphs in my pain, Yet till I feel I love.

Thy gentle miles no more can pleae, Nor can thy oftet friendhip eae The torments I endure; Think what that wounded breat mut feel Which truth and kindnes cannot heal, Nor e'en thy pity cure.

Oft hall I cure my iron chain, And wih again thy milder reign With long and vain regret;