Yet boasts his mind no shackles wears: ...
'Tis hard his solemn Oath to trust;
For, without future hopes and fears,
Know I if Conscience makes him just? ...

And then, the' admitted evidence ...
Ye Jurors, can his word be true?
Tempted, in his own defence,
To feign another's crime to you.

When venial crimes in Love's gay spring,
Prompt the youthful Female's sigh;
When her roses all take wing,
And Matrons sage her plight descry;

Blushing, weeping, she'll confess
The fault her faded cheeks discover:
But, to make her crime the less,
Imputes an outrage to her Lover.

So strong the power of pride and shame,
Her frailty she will still deny;
Rather than own herself to blame,
She lets the hapless Lover die.

Is Merit from his right debarr'd;
Or guiltless charg'd with foul offence?
A Knave but speaks the perjur'd word,
And laughs at injur'd Innocence.