Retoure my dear Dell.
Each Darkmans[310] I pass in an old shady grove,
And live not the Lightmans[311], I toute[312] not my love,
I surtoute every walk, which we used to pass,
And couch me down weeping and kiss the cold grass:
I cry out on my Mort[313] to pity my pain,
And all our vagaries remember again.
Didst thou know, my dear Doxy, but half of the smart