To fly from one already nauseous grown,
That lov’d you but too well, and trusted you too soon.——
‘My Friends (you cry) and Honour call me hence,
‘And I must now be gone, to serve my Prince,’
Why was not that nice Honour thought on then,
When you deluded me to give up mine?
This was all Fiction, which you did devise
To seem less guilty, and to blind my Eyes.
But, ah! should I have too much Bliss enjoy’d,
Might I with you have liv’d, with you have dy’d.——