III.
For then no more a Soul but Shade,
It mournfully does move;
And haunts my Breast, by Absence made
The living Tomb of Love.
IV.
You wiser Men despise me not;
Whose Love-sick Fancy raves,
On Shades of Souls, and Heav’n knows what;
Short Ages live in Graves.
V.
Whene’er those wounding Eyes, so full
Of Sweetness, you did see;
Had you not been profoundly dull,
You had gone mad like me.
VI.
Nor censure us, you who perceive
My best belov’d and me,
Sigh and lament, complain and grieve,
You think we disagree.
VII.
Alas! ’tis sacred Jealousie,
Love rais’d to an Extream;
The only Proof ’twixt them and me,
We love, and do not dream.