Fool as I was, to think your Flame was true,
True as th’ Excessive Love I bear to you!
T’ encrease my Torments all your Acts incline;
To make me wretched is your whole Design.
Nor wou’d your Passion any Ease allow,
If only grounded on my Love for you:
But I’m so far ev’n from that poor Pretence,
Six Months are past since you departed hence;
Six tedious Melancholy Months are gone,
And I’ve not been so much as thought upon: