Tixall Poetry.
139
XXV.
Dispaire.
Noe, noe, 'tis in vaine
To sigh or complaine,
Since the secret Ile never reveale;
The racks shall not teare it
From my breast, but He beare it
To my grave, where it ever shall dwell.
To sigh or complaine,
Since the secret Ile never reveale;
The racks shall not teare it
From my breast, but He beare it
To my grave, where it ever shall dwell.
O, would that the Gods had created her low,
Or plact her poore lover above;
Then, then, I might freely a present bestow,
Of a hart thats all over in love.
Or plact her poore lover above;
Then, then, I might freely a present bestow,
Of a hart thats all over in love.
Like the damn'd from the fire,
I sigh, and admire,
But can never presume' to be blest!
Oh! the pangs of a lover,
That dares not discover
The passion that's lodg'd in his breast!
I sigh, and admire,
But can never presume' to be blest!
Oh! the pangs of a lover,
That dares not discover
The passion that's lodg'd in his breast!
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