WERE thy heart soft as thou art fair, Thou wer't a wonder past compare: But frozen Love and fierce disdain By their extremes thy graces stain. Cold coyness quenches the still fires Which glow in lovers' warm desires; And scorn, like the quick lightning's blaze, Darts death against affections gaze. O Heavens, what prodigy is this When Love in Beauty buried is! Or that dead pity thus should be Tomb'd in a living cruelty. |