I said: resolv'd to plunge into my Grief
At once so far, as to expect Relief
From my Despair alone —
I chose to write the Thing I durst not speak,
To Her I lov'd; to Her I must forsake.
The harsh Epistle labour'd much to prove,
How inconsistent Majesty, and Love.
I always should, It said, esteem Her well;
But never see her more: It bid Her feel
No future Pain for Me; but instant wed
A Lover more proportion'd to her Bed;
And quiet dedicate her remnant Life
To the just Duties of an humble Wife.