An Address to a Wealthy Libertine by James Parkerson

Believe me, Sir; I do these lines impart
With every pang that can corrode the heart;
Bring to your mind a dismal scene late past,
And let that guilty Amour be your last.
Think of my friend that was of late so gay,
By your vile arts dishonour’d and away;
From every joy that animates this life,
The tender mother and the happy wife.
A husband’s frowns, a father’s burning tears,
For Stella’s folly much increase their cares.