Go, turn away those cruel eyes,
  For they have quite undone me;
They used not so to tyrannize
  When first those glances won me.

But ’tis the custom of you men, —
  False men thus to deceive us!
To love but till we love again,
  And then again to leave us.

Go, let alone my heart and me,
  Which thou hast thus affrighted!
I did not think I could by thee
  Have been so ill requited.

But now I find ’tis I must prove
  That men have no compassion;
When we are won, you never love
  Poor women, but for fashion,

Do recompense my love with hate,
  And kill my heart! I’m sure
Thou’lt one day say, when ’tis too late,
  Thou never hadst a truer.