1   Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,      To those thyself so fondly sought;   The tears that thou hast forced to trickle      Are doubly bitter from that thought:   ’Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest      Too well thou lov’st—too soon thou leavest. 2   The wholly false the heart despises,      And spurns deceiver and deceit;   But she who not a thought disguises,      Whose love is as sincere as sweet,   When she can change who loved so truly,      It feels what mine has felt so newly. 3   To dream of joy and wake to sorrow      Is doom’d to all who love or live;   And if, when conscious on the morrow,      We scarce our fancy can forgive,   That cheated us in slumber only,      To leave the waking soul more lonely, 4   What must they feel whom no false vision,      But truest, tenderest passion warm’d?   Sincere, but swift in sad transition;      As if a dream alone had charm’d?   Ah! sure such grief is fancy’s scheming,      And all thy change can be but dreaming!