O husband mid thy weakness, still too dear
Are such the actions of a love sincere;
Grant but these lines with true affection fraught,
The calm indulgence of unbiass’d thought;
Does not remorse, even in some tender hour,
O’er thy fond soul extend her chilling power;
How oft do Rome and sad Octavia rise,
And glance reproaches to thy mental eyes;
Ah if ’tis so, and thy repentant soul
Has felt the salutary griefs controul,