IN vain, alas! poor Strephon tries To ease his tortured breast; Since Amoret the cure denies, And makes his pain a jest. Ah! fair one, why to me so coy, And why to him so true; Who with more coldness slights the joy, Than I with love pursue? Die then, unhappy lover! die, For, since she gives thee death, The world has nothing that can buy A minute more of breath. Yet, though I could your scorn outlive, 'Twere folly; since to me Not love itself a joy can give, But, Amoret, in thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE LADIES by MARY LEE CHUDLEIGH ONE SHORT HOUR by RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH BY BLUE ONTARIO'S SHORE by WALT WHITMAN BOX-CAR LETTERS by KARLE WILSON BAKER THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT; OR THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM PSALM 19 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |