’Tis hard to end,--See I begin anew, And th’ Officer won’t stay; oh! let him go: I write to entertain my self, not you; And ’tis so long, you ’ll never read it thro’, Gods! how have I deserv’d such Plagues as these? And why was you pick’d out to spoil my Peace? Oh! why was I not born where I might pass In Innocence and Happiness my Days? ’Tis too too much to bear, no Tongue can tell What I endure--Farewel--false Man!--Farewel, See! see! how miserable I ’m made by you, When I dare not so much as ask your Love--adieu. LETTER V From a Nun to a Cavalier I hope, by th’ different Ayre of this, you ’ll find That as I ’ve chang’d my Stile, I ’ve chang’d my Mind. The Substance of these Lines will let you know That you ’re to take them for my last Adieu: For since your Love is past redemption gone, I ’ve no Pretence to justifie my own. All that I have of yours shall be convey’d To you, without so much as mention made Of your loath’d Name; the Pacquet shall not bear Those Letters which I now detest to hear. In Donna Brites I can well confide, And whom, you know, I ’ve other ways imploy’d; Your Picture she ’ll (and all that ’s yours) remove, Those once-endearing Pledges of your Love: A thousand Times I ’ve had a strong Desire To tear and throw them in the flaming Fire; But I ’m a Fool too easie in my Pain, And such a generous Rage can’t entertain. Wou’d but the Story of my Cares create The like to you, methinks ’twou’d mine abate. Your Trifles, I must own, went near my Heart, With them I found it difficult to part. To what was yours I bore such mortal Love, Tho’ you yourself did quite indiff’rent prove, They ’ve cost me many a Sigh, and many a Tear, And more Distraction than you e’er shall hear. My Friend, I say, now keeps them in her Pow’r, And I am never to behold ’em more; She them will secretly to you convey, Without my Knowledge hasten them away: Tho’ for a sight I on my Knees shou’d lie, The more I pray, she must the more deny. Ne’er had I known the Fury of my Flame Had I not try’d my Passion to reclaim; Nay, to attempt a Cure I ’d ne’er begun, Cou’d I ’ve foreseen the Hazards I must run: For sure I am, I cou’d with greater Ease Support your Scorn, as rig’rous as it is, Rather than to retain the dreadful Thought, That Absence must for ever be my Lot. I shou’d be happy if I cou’d be Proud, And with the Nature of our Sex endow’d: Cou’d I despise you, and your Actions scorn, And be reveng’d for all the Ills I ’ve born.