Behold those pains in varied forms display'd, 

 Then reckon what the poor reclaitrtd has paid 

 For all thy boasted patronage, to prove 

 The proud distinction of thy vaunted love. 

 Reckon those scars, which thy unkindness gave, 

 A still-forgiving, still-insulted slave ; 

 Reckon that wanton gash, that mangled limb, 

 From hateful vengeance this, and that from whim ; 

 Reckon that stunning stroke, which to the ground 

 Brought thy true friend, to welter in his wound ; 

 Count, too, the anguish of those sounding blows, 

 And the deep stream, that blushes as it flows. 



Wretch ! could'st thou see him when thy useless 



breath 

 At last shall give thee to the grasp of death, 

 When, haply, thy sole mourner, fix'd he stands, 

 Watches thy couch, and licks thy barbarous hands ; 

 Those hands that long have tried their force to 



prove 

 Thy heart was dead to pity, truth, and love. 

 Ah ! could'st thou view him seem to look a pray'r, 

 Or heave the moan that seem'd to speak despair ; 

 Then follow sad thy body to the grave, 

 There, each extremity of hunger brave ; 

 Nor quit the spot, till famine, fraud, or force, 

 Drove him awhile to quit thy much-lov'd corse ; 

 Soon to return — enamour'd of the spot — 

 Thy savage nature, rage, and stripes forgot ; 

 ii 97 



