 | The Land of Love |  |
The Penitent.
I.
With Rigor arm your self, I cry'd,It is but just and fit;
I merit all this Treatment from your Pride,
All the Reproaches of your Wit.
Put on the cruel Tyrant as you will;
But know, my tender Heart adores you still.
And yet that Heart has murmur'd too,
And been so proud to let you know,
It did complain, and rave, and rail at you.
Yet all the while, by ev'ry God I swear;
By ev'ry pitying Pow'r, who wretched Mortals hear;
By all those Charms that disengage
My Soul from the Extreams of Rage;
By all the Art you have to save and kill,
My faithful tender Heart adores you still.
II.
But oh! you should excuse my soft Complaint;Even my wilder Ravings too prefer:
I sigh, I burn, I weep, I faint,
And vent my Passion to the Air,
55
Serve but to make you put new Graces on;
You laugh, and rally my Despair,
Which to my Rivals renders you more fair,
And but the more confirms my being undone.
Sport with my Pain as gayly as you will,
My fond and tender Heart adores you still.
My diff'ring Passions thus did never cease,
'Till they had touch'd her Soul with Tenderness.
My Rivals now are vanish'd by Degrees,
And with them all my Fears and Jealousies.
The Storm's blown o'er, my Cares at length are gone,
And I in her fair Breast command alone.
'Till they had touch'd her Soul with Tenderness.
My Rivals now are vanish'd by Degrees,
And with them all my Fears and Jealousies.
The Storm's blown o'er, my Cares at length are gone,
And I in her fair Breast command alone.
| The Land of Love | |