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Hilst gales of sighs were sent from my sad breast,

And thoughts of you would give my eyes no rest,

Snatching a midnight taper straight to write,

I did begin but fancy dull’d my fight;

Then pardon, if some blots do here appear,

While I entreat you to be kind as fair.

Pity the man that pines and sighs for you,

The man, who vows for ever to be true:

And thinks that nothing is for you too good:

O give me some, altho’ Camelion’s food:

Let me have hopes, altho’ I feed on air,

And run me not thus, head-long to despair:

Send me a cordial, dearest, or I die:

Tis thou or death! must end my misery:

One or the other, I must surely have:

You for a wife, or wed the silent grave:

I strive to wear the chain, and live in pain:

And, ’till I know my doom, I must remain.

Yours, &c. &c.

Our poetical fancy is very great, I suppose much greater than your passion: but if you are real, take notice, I give you leave to hope: Yet rely not too much upon that, for women’s minds are wavering. Indeed I could have wish’d you had plac’d your affections some where else: For tho’ I should admit you among the number of my servants, it is ten to one if ever you have what you desire. This letter,