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81

To the same.

A heart long since, (for 'twas your due)
Too lovely Maid, I gave to you.
The Present you with Smiles receiv'd,
And I the charming Cheat believ'd.)
With seeming Joy you hugg'd the Slave,
And feigned Love for real gave.
But then with a relentless Dart,
In barb'rous Sport you stuck each Part.
Till, weary'd with the cruel Play,
You cast the bleeding Wretch away;
Who wounded thus, will not complain
Of the dear Author of his Pain:

82

But whilst he's made a Sacrifice,
Adores the Hand by which he dies.