 | The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden
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Son. [iii]
[O Fate! conspir'd to powre your Worst on mee]
O Fate!
conspir'd to powre your Worst on mee,
O rigorous Rigour, which doth all confound!
With cruell Hands yee haue cut downe the Tree,
And Fruit and Flowre dispersed on the Ground.
A litle Space of Earth my Loue doth bound,
That Beautie which did raise it to the Skie,
Turn'd in neglected Dust, now low doth lie,
Deafe to my Plaints, and senslesse of my Wound.
Ah! did I liue for this, ah! did I loue?
For this and was it shee did so excell?
That ere shee well Lifes sweet-sowre Ioyes did proue,
Shee should (too deare a Guest) with Horrour dwell?
Weake Influence of Heauen! what faire yee frame,
Falles in the Prime, and passeth like a Dreame.
| The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden
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