Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/576

538 Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain,

While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show!

Then thou would'st at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee—

Though it smile upon the blow,

Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found,

Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not—

Love may sink by slow decay,

But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away: