 | Poems upon Several Occasions |  |
Song.
Aske me not why I am so sad, nor why I hereThe Nymps forbear,
Do with my Arms a Crosse walk in this grove?
Within the hollow concave of my troubl'd breast
Which never rests
Lies the true cause, and my tormentor Love.
'Tis jealous fear, causes my care,
And burthens thus my Love-sick Heart,
I fear that she, my deitie
Delights to see my smart;
For still she frowns, and Knitts her brows
And doth abhorr my Company,
Whilst Lycon Courts her, with her sports,
I dare not do't though by.
O cruell fair! why dost thou thus delight to kill
Thy slave who will
Whilst he has life adore thee? and will be
Courted by none for to neglect his duty, though you are his foe
And with tormenting pains would murther me.
And since that you, forbid me sue
Or ask for mercy, I will ne'r
With my complaints, and sad laments
In vain disturb your ear;
No, death will doe as much as Love hath don
VVith's dart he'l peirce me through;
Death will be found, to Cure that wound
VVhich Cœlia would not doe.
| Poems upon Several Occasions | |