Accuse me not, inconstant fair,
Of being false to thee,
For I was true, would still been so,
Hadst thou been true to me.
But when I knew thy plighted lips
Once to a rival's prest,
Love-smothered independence rose,
And spurn'd thee from my breast.
The fairest flow'r in Nature's field,
Conceals the rankling thorn ;
So thou, sweet flow'r ! as false as fair,
This once kind heart bath torn.
'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs
That slighted love can feel ;
Tis thine to weep that one rash act,
Which bids this long fareweel.