TO ANNE.

Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:

I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you;

But Woman is made to command and deceive us —

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.

I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,

Yet thought that a day's separation was long;

When we met, I determined again to suspect you —

Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.

I swore, in a transport of young indignation,

With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you:

I saw you — my anger became admiration;

And now, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you.

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you;—

At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension,

Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!