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XXIV
Though they augmenters of my thraldom be,
For her I live and her I love and none else;
O then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me,
Who poor, despised, forlorn must live alone else,
And like Amintas haunt the desert cells,
And moanless there breathe out thy cruelty,
Where none but care and melancholy dwells.
I for revenge to Nemesis will cry;
If that will not prevail, my wandering ghost,
Which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave,
Shall unto thee with tragic tidings post,
How thy disdain did life from soul bereave.
Then all too late my death thou wilt repent,
When murther's guilt thy conscience shall torment.
