The Unfaithful Lover Poem by Charlotte Dacre

(IMPROMPTU.)

How dare you say that still you love?
In truth you'll move my rage,
Or, likelier far, my scorn you'll prove,
If deeper you engage.

Be warn'd, in time, I love no more,
Nor can I ever change:
One pang I felt, but now 'tis o'er,
And you may freely range.

Cold, cold I feel to all your sighs,
Cold, cold to all your tears,
Indiff'rence arms my alter'd eyes,
And apathy my ears.

Hard as the flinty rock I seem;
The form no longer charms,
That, wand'ring in a fev'rish dream,
Dwelt in the wanton's arms.

Go, satiate there—my love so pure
Shall never more be yours;
Let meretricious charms allure,
And wing your worthless hours.

Seduction from those eyes no more
My conscious nerves will feel;
And while your sorrows I deplore,
I have no wish to heal.

I know another still might say
Your heart remain'd her own;
I think the senses cannot stray
Indiff'rent and alone:

For 'tis the senses that delude,
That vitiate the heart;
Refinement dies as they intrude,
And love conceals his dart.

Your friend perhaps I still may be—
Your mistress, never, never;
The flame that dazzled you from me
Leaves you more lost than ever.