Here tell Me, if Thou dar'st, my conscious Soul,
What diff'rent Sorrows did within Thee roll:
What Pangs, what Fires, what Racks didst Thou sustain,
What sad Vicissitudes of smarting Pain?
How oft from Pomp and State did I remove,
To feed Despair, and cherish hopeless Love?
How oft, all Day, recall'd I  Charms,
Her Beauties press'd, and panting in my Arms?
How oft, with Sighs, view'd every Female Face,
Where mimic Fancy might her Likeness trace?
How oft desir'd to fly from  Throne,
And live in Shades with Her and Love alone?
How oft, all Night, pursu'd Her in my Dreams,
O'er flow'ry Vallies, and thro' Crystal Streams;
And waking, view'd with Grief the rising Sun,
And fondly mourn'd the dear Delusion gone?