OLIVER GOLDSMITH

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 ev’ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom is—to 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’ oppress’d oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch’s woe: And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe.