 | Poetical works [1797] |  |
SONG.
[Of all the torments, all the cares]
Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst.
By partners, in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst.
By partners, in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
Are labouring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
| Poetical works [1797] | |