"She, who my poor heart possesses"
di anonimo

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.