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. Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are laboring in my breast, I beg not you would favor me;— Would you but slight the rest! How great soe’er your rigors are, With them alone I ’ll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another’s hope.
Collection:
1683
Sub Title:
V. Cautions and Complaints