Iphtah, meeting his Daughter after Victory

Ah ruthfull object, that doth dart
A thousand horrours to my heart!
Poore harmelesse haplesse child! must thou
Make good thy Fathers ill-made vow?
And shall I such rash breath fulfull?
Deare Heaven avert it. Yet I will,
And must, although with trembling hands
I shake in sunder natures bands.
But to thy memory each day
Full summes of sorrows must I pay,
And when salt teares have drain'd mine eyes,
Make Fountaines poore with fresh supplyes.