T’ abuse a Love like mine, is highly base, And cannot but redound to your Disgrace. Who would have thought, when of my love possest, ’Twas not enough to make you ever blest? And ’tis for your own sake I ’m troubled most, When I but think upon the Joys you ’ve lost: Nay, did you judge aright,---- The difference soon by you perceiv’d would be, Betwixt abusing and obliging me; Betwixt the Pleasures, which you might have prov’d, Of loving much, and being much belov’d. Such is the Force of my excessive woe, I ’m quite insensible of what I do; Ten Thousand different Thoughts distract my Mind, My rigid Fate can’t be by words defin’d; To Death I love, yet cannot wish that you Should share the Miseries I undergo. To loath, t’ have all things odious in your sight, Receive no Ease by Day, no Rest by Night: Your Soul o’erloaded with continual Cares, Your Eyes still flowing with a flood of Tears; Did you but suffer this my grief for you, ’Twou’d quickly finish what my own can’t do. Why do I write? Shou’d I your Pity move, What good wou’d Pity do without your Love? I scorn it; and my self with equal Scorn I loath, when I reflect on what I ’ve born: My Friends I ’ve lost, and Reputation too, Have ran the hazard of our Laws for you: But what ’s much worse, now I all this have done, False as you are, ev’n you ’re ingrateful grown. Yet, oh! I cannot, cannot yet repent, But rather am with all my Ills content: I cannot grieve at what I’ve done for you, But more for your dear sake wou’d undergo; To you wou’d sacrifice my Life and Fame; They ’re yours, which you (and only you) can claim. In short, I ’m vex’d with every thing I do; Nor can I think I ’m kindly us’d by you. False as I am, why don’t I die with Shame, And so convince you of my raging Flame? If I had lov’d so well as oft I ’ve said, Your Cruelty ere this had struck me dead. No, all this while, ’tis you ’ve deluded been, And have the greatest Reason to complain. How could I see you go, and yet survive, } out of Hopes of your Return and Live? } I ’ve wrong’d you; but I hope you will forgive. } Yet grant it not, treat me severely still, Tell me, that I ’ve abus’d, and us’d you ill. Be harder still to please, encrease my Care. And end my Sufferings with a sure Despair. A Fate that ’s Tragical would doubtless be The Way t’ endear me to your Memory. Perhaps too you ’d be touch’d with such a Death, When you reflect how I ’ve resign’d my Breath. To me I ’m sure, ’twou’d welcome be indeed, And far to be preferr’d before the Life I lead.----