Go , Nymph, unfaithful as the air!
Fair, yet false, and oft forsworn;
Go, leave thy Victim to despair;
Leave thy deluded love to mourn!

And, when by village-pity told,
Yon wither'd clods his bosom fold,
Pass sportive, unregarding by,
Nor stream one tear from that pernicious eye,
Which might perchance, his grassy grave illume,
And even in death, annoy the slumbers of the tomb.
Haply, the knell may smite thine ear,
But do not pause, the knell to hear,
Each peal thy guilty soul will shake,
(If late contrition enters there;)
Each solemn sound thy heart will break,
And false, and cruel, as thou art,
I would not, could not, break that heart!