Madam, I hear, and hear with Sorrow,
That we're to lose Your Grace To--morrow;
Nor you alone, but Lady Di.
Where, thus deserted, shall I fly?
Am I condemn'd to live in Pain,
Till distant Autumn comes again?
Till Time, in Pity to my Grief,
Shall bring you back to my Relief?
Do not, relentless, let me moan;
O take me, Ladies, as your own!
Tho' Thousands have your Rigour felt,
Let me your lovely Bosoms melt:
Since you to win my Heart have deign'd,
Quit not the Conquest you have gain'd:
Nor Marlbro's glorious Footsteps shun;
He always kept the Field he won.
