Why do I write? Shou’d I your Pity move,
What good wou’d Pity do without your Love?
I scorn it; and my self with equal Scorn
I loath, when I reflect on what I ’ve born:
My Friends I ’ve lost, and Reputation too,
Have ran the hazard of our Laws for you:
But what ’s much worse, now I all this have done,
False as you are, ev’n you ’re ingrateful grown.
Yet, oh! I cannot, cannot yet repent,
But rather am with all my Ills content: