PHYLLIS, O Phyllis! Thou art fondly vain, My wavering thoughts thus to molest, Why should my pleasure be the only pain, That must torment my easy breast? If with Prometheus I had stolen fire, Fire from above, As scorching, and as bright, as that of Love, I might deserve Jove's ire, A vulture then might on my liver feed, But now eternally I bleed, And yet on Thee, on Thee lies all the blame, Who freely gav'st the fuel and the flame. |