How, my love, could hapless doubts o'er take thee,
Was my heart so little known?
Could'st thou think thy Mary would forsake thee?
Thou wast lov'd, and thou alone!
Cruel Fortune! Rash! Mistaken Lover!
May I ... must I not complain:
Never, never may'st thou now discover,
All that now were known in vain.

Mine the grief, alas! That knows no measure,
Thou wast lov'd, and thou alone:
Thine the life that now can feel no pleasure,
Wreck'd my bliss, and lost thine own.
Sometimes will my lonely sighs accuse thee,
But thy heart was not unkind.