 | Poems upon several Occasions |  |
The Heart Sent.
I
Make Haste, my Heart, fly to that peerless Dame,For whom I burn in an unusual Flame;
Tell Her what num'rous Racks I bear,
What Wounds from Grief, what Wounds from Care;
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To seek Relief, by whom thou art undone.
II
Say how with Show'rs of Tears my Eyes still flow,Which nourish Grief, and but augment my Woe.
How Time, and Life for Her I waste,
My Time, and Life that fly too fast;
Tell Her, these Wrongs I patiently endure,
Only in Hopes from Her to find a Cure.
III
But tho' in Tears I'm drown'd, in Flames I burn,And tho' amidst a Thousand Cares I mourn,
Yet if the Nymph's so gently kind,
As once to have Me in her Mind,
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But too much Joy, but too much Happiness.
| Poems upon several Occasions | |