Dear Object of my Love! didst thou but know
The Tortures, that I daily undergo
For thy dear sake, thou sure wouldst be so kind,
To weep the Troubles that invade my mind;
I need not tell thee that I dearly love,
No, all my Actions will my Passion prove:
For thee I've left the wise, the great, the good,
And on my Vows, not my Preferment stood.
Think then, dear
Strephon,
how unkind thou art,
To prove the Torturer of that tender heart,
That chose thee out to be its chief Delight,
And knows no real Joy but in thy sight.
Since first thy Courtship me to Love inclined,
Thou ne'er hast been one hour out of my mind.
How tedious then must thy long absence be
To her, that wishes nothing else to see,
And lives not, but when in thy Company?
Haste then dear Love! for if thou longer stay,
My Griefs will make me sigh my Soul away.