You ’d better share what my poor soul endures,
Than th’ empty Joys you find in new Amours.
So far am I from envying your Fate,
I rather pity your unhappy State.
I all your false dissembling Arts defie:
I know I ’m rooted in your Memory,
And am perhaps the happiest of the Two,
In that I now am more employ’d than you.
They’ve made me Keeper of the Convent Door,
Which is a Place I ne’er supply’d before;