I MAKE no war, and yet no peace have found, With heat I melt, when starv'd to death with cold. I soar to Heav'n, while grovelling on the ground, Embrace the world, yet nothing do I hold. I'm not confin'd, yet cannot I depart, Nor loose the chain, tho' not a captive led; Love kills me not, yet wounds me to the heart, Will neither have m' alive, nor have me dead. Being blind, I see; not having voice, I cry: I wish for Death, while I of Life make choice; I hate myself, yet love you tenderly; Do feed of tears, and in my grief rejoice. Thus, Cynthia, all my health is but disease; Both life and death do equally displease. |