Fooled me to a false security. That night
I wrote my passion; and by such presumption
Offended. My after patience met with scorn,
My importunity anger. I then desisted,
Trying if by absence I could work my cure.
Twelve months of trial bring me here to-day
With no hope left but this; that living near her
Her daily and familiar sight may blunt
My strained ideal passion; or if this
Quench not my fancy, it may serve to feed it