Think on our oaths; yes, lady, they are mutual:—
You said you loved; I treasured the confession,
As misers hoard their gold: nay, 'twas my all.—
Think not I chatter in the idle school
Of whining coxcombs, where despair and death
Are words of course; I swell not fancied ills
With windy eloquence: no, trust me, Julia,
I speak in honest, simple suffering:
And disappointment, in my life's best hope,
So feeds upon my life, and wears me inward,