Oliver Goldsmith


WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
    And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
    What art can wash her tears away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
    To hide her shame from ev’ry eye,
To give repentence to her lover,
    And wring his bosom is—to die.

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Oliver Goldsmith
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