She, who my poor heart possesses

She, who my poor heart possesses,

Is of late so fickle grown;

She to ev'ry fop that dresses

Still is parting with her own.

Once, if any chanc'd to name her,

I all ravish'd did appear;

Now I blush lest they defame her

With some truth I dare not hear.

While my doubts are yet prevailing,

If she but the thing deny,

Soon she makes me leave my railing,

And I give my thoughts the lie.

You whose skill in love is greater,

Say what charm compels my fate,

Say what makes me love her better,

Whom I fear I ought to hate.