It would rather
Write me a Fool, should I but only think
That any good to me could flow from you,
Whom for so many years I have found and prov'd
My greatest Enemy: I am still the same,
My wants have not transform'd me: I dare tell you,
To your new cerus'd face, what I have spoken
Freely behind your back, what I think of you,
You are the proudest thing, and have the least
Reason to be so that I ever read of.