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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!
January 16, 1807.