Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:
I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you;
But Woman is made to command and deceive us—
I look’d in your face, and I almost forgave you.

I vow’d I could ne’er for a moment respect you,
  Yet thought that a day’s separation was long;
When we met, I determined again to suspect you—
  Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.

I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
  With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you:
I saw you—my anger became admiration;
  And now, all my wish, all my hope’s to regain you.

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!
  Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you;—
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension,
  Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!