To be an afterthought, an asterisk, where once the passions steamed;
tis worse than being hated or a psychopath so deemed.
Your pity for my small affairs hath wounded me so deep
I ne’er can start the salted seas which I by rights should weep.
Come again into my world, like weed once rooted out,
I am loath to see you anchored and begin to sprout
In my heart with fancy taken by sweet creeping chance —
Have I the fortitude to cut you out with spade or prying lance?