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1728-1774
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her tears away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from evry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom isto die.
O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, th oppressd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretchs woe:
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.
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