 | Poems |  |
The sick Lover.
My
sickly breath
Wasts in a double flame;
Whilst Love and Death
To my poor life lay claim;
The feavour in whose heat I melt
By her that causeth it not felt.
Wasts in a double flame;
Whilst Love and Death
To my poor life lay claim;
The feavour in whose heat I melt
By her that causeth it not felt.
Thou who alone
Canst, yet wilt grant no ease,
Why slight'st thou one
To feed a new disease?
Unequal fair! the heart is thine;
Ah, why then should the pain be mine!
Canst, yet wilt grant no ease,
Why slight'st thou one
To feed a new disease?
Unequal fair! the heart is thine;
Ah, why then should the pain be mine!
| Poems | |