 | Pierides |  |
79. The dying Lover.
You murthering eyes, you have disliv'd a man:Nay, do not court me now, you never can
Repair the breach. Dull lamps they may be cherish
But there's no succour for a heart that's perisht.
You may deplore my fall, but not recover
The blood you spilt; deaths fatal blow is over.
And now behold I die, my senses reel,
My humane powers dissolve. I gently feel
My soul departing to the sphere above,
The low Elysium of terrestrial love.
116
Yours is the crime, mine is eternal rest.
These words he spake, then with a doleful gasp,
His soul and body death did soon unhasp.
| Pierides | |