Dire agonies, wild terrors swarm, And Death glares grim in many a form. - John Conington

Virtue's a mere name,
Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim.

From me you fly! Ah! let me crave,
By these poor tears, that hand you gave—
Since, parting with my woman's pride,
My madness leaves me nought beside—
By that our wedlock, by the rite
Which, but begun, could yet unite,
If e'er my kindness held you bound,
If e'er in my joy you found,
Look on this falling house, and still,
If prayer can touch you, change your will.

I quail,
E'en now, at telling of the tale.