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Custom, Law, Reason, All! my Cause forsake,
And Nature sleeps, to keep my Woes awake!
Crimes, which the Cruel scarce believe, can be,
The Kind are guilty of, to ruin me!
Even She, who bore me, blasts me, with her Hate,
And, meant my Fortune, makes herself my Fate!
Yet has this sweet Neglecter of my Woes,
The softest, tend'rest, Breast, that Pity knows!
Her Eyes shed Mercy, wheresoe'er they shine;
And her Soul melts, at every Woe— but mine.
Sure, then! some secret Fate, for Guilt, unwill'd,
Some Sentence, pre-ordain'd to be fulfill'd!
Plung'd me, thus deep, in Sorrow's searching Flood:
And wash'd me from the Mem'ry of her Blood.
But, Oh! whatever Cause has mov'd her Hate,
Let me but sigh, in silence, at my Fate.
The God, within, perhaps, may touch her Breast:
And, when she pities, who can be distress'd?
These Verses, as I said before, were published in the Plain Dealer, to whom Mr. Savage afterwards wrote a Letter himself, that was printed in that Paper, in which he says: Iam,
