I wou’d not have you think that I maintain These Arguments, in hopes I may regain Your Love; too well I know my Destiny; I always was, and still must wretched be. When you was here I did no Rest enjoy: } Present, for fear of infidelity; } When distant, Absence did my ease destroy. } I always trembled while you was with me, Lest you shou’d be found, and come to Injury: While in the Field, both Lives in Danger were; Fear of my parents did encrease my Care. So that ’tis plain, ev’n at the best, my Mind Was as disturb’d as I at present find: Since you left me, had you but once seem’d kind, I shou’d have follow’d, and not been confin’d. Alas! what wou’d have then become of me, T’ have brought a Scandal on my Family; T’ have lost my Parents and my Honour too, And, after all, to be despis’d by you? What Thoughts soever you of me retain, I reconjure you ne’er to write again: Methinks you shou’d sometimes reflect upon The base ungen’rous Injuries you ’ve done. No woman sure did e’er so easy prove; What did you ever do to gain my Love? You was the first that to the Army went; To stay the longest there, the best content. Did you more careful of your Person grow, Altho’ upon my knees I begg’d you wou’d do so? Did you e’er strive to fix in Portugal, A Place where you was well belov’d of all? Your Brother’s Letter hurry’d you away, On the receipt of it you ’d not a moment stay; And I ’m inform’d you ne’er was pleased more Than when on board a making from our Shore. You can’t deny but you deserve my Hate, And I may thank my self for all my Fate; I was too free, and gave my Heart too soon, And brought upon my self the Ills I ’ve undergone. Alas! from Love alone Love ne’er will rise, It must be rais’d by Skill and Artifice. Your first Design was to ensnare my Love, And nothing wou’d have spar’d that might successful prove: Nay, I believe, if it had needful been, Rather than failed, you wou’d have lov’d again; But you found easier ways to work upon, And thought it best to let the Love alone.---- Perfidious Man! which way can you atone For th’ base and treach’rous Affronts you ’ve done? The blinding Passion now is vanquished quite, That kept the foulness of them from my sight: Must my tormented Soul never have Ease? When shall I be, thou cruel Man, at Peace? Within a while you yet perhaps may hear, Or have a Letter, from your injur’d Fair, To let you know that she is at repose, Freed of the Torments that from you arose. Oh! what a Pleasure it will be to me, Without concern t’ accuse you of your Treachery! When I ’ve forgot the wracking Pains I ’ve born, And able am to talk of you with Scorn!