Answer To Cloe Jealous. The Author Sick

Yes, fairest Proof of Beauty's Pow'r, Dear Idol of My panting Heart, Nature points This my fatal Hour: And I have liv'd; and We must part. While now I take my last Adieu, Heave Thou no Sigh, nor shed a Tear; Lest yet my half-clos'd Eye may view On Earth an Object worth it's Care. From Jealousy's tormenting Strife For ever be Thy Bosom free'd: That nothing may disturb Thy Life, Content I hasten to the Dead. Yet when some better-fated Youth Shall with his am'rous Parly move Thee; Reflect One Moment on His Truth, Who dying Thus, persists to love Thee.