Give, give me back that Trifle you despise,
Give back my Heart, with all its Injuries:
Tho' by your Cruelty it wounded be,
The Thing is yet of wond'rous Use to me.
A gen'rous Conqueror, when the Battle's won,
Bestows a Charity on the Undone:
If from the well aim'd Stroke no Hope appear,
He kills the Wretch, and shews Compassion there:
But you, Barbarian! keep alive in Pain,
A lasting Trophy of Unjust Disdain.

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