Fool as I am, to let my hopes rely On one who strives t’ encrease my Misery! You talk of Truth and Sincerity; They both are what you never shew’d to me. To tell you what I ’ve born ’tis now too late, (For th’ most obliged, and yet the most ingrate) Let it suffice I all your Falsehood know; And all I ask for what I ’ve done for you, Is, Write no more, but some Invention find To tear your Image from my Tortur’d Mind. I too must now forbear to write to you, } Lest a Relapse shou’d by that means ensue; } And the Event of this I ’ve no Desire to know. } Methinks you shou’d enough contented be With th’ Ills you have already brought on me: Sure now you need no more molest my Ease, Or shake the Structure of my future Peace. Do you but leave me in Uncertainty, I hope in time I shall at quiet be: ’Tis not impossible but I may find A Love as true as you have been unkind. But what will Love that any Man shall shew Afford to me, without I love him too? Why shou’d his Am’rous Passion more incline To move my Heart, than yours was mov’d by mine? And I perceive by what I now endure, That the first Wounds of Love admits no Cure; All sorts of Remedies then prove in vain, W’ are ne’er recover’d to our selves again; So fixt, and so immutable is Fate, We ’re doomed to Love, though w’ are repaid with Hate. I ’m sure I cou’d not so hard-hearted be, To treat another as you ’ve treated me: Provided you was to another chang’d, Of you I cou’d not that way take revenge. I ’d fain perswade my self a Nun shou’d ne’er Confine the Passions of a Cavalier; But if a man wou’d by his Reason move, A Mistress in a Convent is most fit for Love; Those in the World do all their Thoughts employ On Balls, on Visits, and their Finery, Encrease their Husbands’ Jealousies and Cares, Whilst those who favour us have no such Fears. Alas! we ’ve nothing here to change Desire, But by Reflection daily fan the Fire.