Sarah Dixon

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 Pain, A lasting Trophy of Unjust Disdain.