The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring… — Oliver Goldsmith
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom——is to die.
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By the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad
When he put on his clothes.

