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I write to you . . . when that is said What more is left for me to say ? Now you are free (I know too well) To heap contempt upon my head. Yet if some sparks of pity dwell Within your breast you'll surely not Abandon me to my hard lot. 'Tis done! I scarce dare read it through, But overcome with shame and fright I trust my honour now to you, And dare to think I trust aright. |
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