Your Eyes at first an easie Conquest gain’d,
Which since they have but too too well maintain’d.
Your Name each Hour I constantly repeat;
But what’s (alas!) the Comfort which I meet?
Nought but my wretched Fate’s too true Advice,
Which whispers to me in such Words as these:
Ah! Mariane, why do’st hope in vain
To see thy lovely Fugitive again?
The dear, false, cruel Man ’s for ever gone,
And thou, unhappy thou! art left alone: