By all those Vows, which you so often made
When on my panting Bosom you have laid,
Let me no longer this sad Absence mourn,
But bless me, bless me with your kind Return.
Adieu—and yet so tender am I grown,
I know not how to end these Lines so soon;
Oh I that I could but in their Room convey
Myself, thou lovely faithless Man, to Thee!
{Fool that I am, I quite distracted grow,
{And talk of things impossible to do;