The Gods fome Pleasure, Pleasure take,

Happy as themselves to make

To a Wretch not worth your Care; Like some Angel fent from Heav'n,

Come and raise me from Despair!

Your Heart I cannot, cannot mifs,
And I defire no other Bliss;

Let all the World befides be His,

DE.

A

DESPAIR.

LL hopeless of Relief,

Incapable of Reft,

In vain I ftrive to vent a Grief

That's not to be expreft.

This Rage within my Veins

No Reafon can remove;

Of all the Mind's most cruel Pains,

The sharpeft fure is Love.

Ungrateful, cruel Faults

Suit not thy gentle Sex ;

Hereafter, how will guilty Thoughts

Thy tender Conscience vex!

When welcome Death fhall bring

Relief to wretched me,

My Soul enlarg'd, and once on wing,
In hafte will fly to thee.

When in thy lonely Bed,

My Ghost its Moan fhall make, With faddeft Signs that I am dead,

And dead for thy dear fake.

Struck with that conscious Blow,

Thy very Soul will ftart;

Pale as my Shadow thou wilt

grow,

And cold as is thy Heart.

T

Too

Too late Remorfe will then

Untimely Pity show,

To him, who of all mortal Men

Did most thy Value know.

Yet, with this broken Heart,

I wish thou never be

Tormented with the thousand part
Of what I feel for thee.

On

On Apprehenfion of lofing what he had newly gain'd. In Imitation of Ovid.

S

URE I of all Men am the first

That ever was by Kindness curst,
Who must my only Bliss bemoan,
And am by Happiness undone.
Had I at Distance only feen
That lovely Face, I might have been
With the delightful Object pleas'd,
But not with all this Paffion seiz'd.

When afterwards fo near I came,

As to be scorch'd in Beauty's Flame;

To