200
Tixall Poetry.
Now, fate, I defie thee to punish me worse,
For without my Belinda my life's but a curse:
The thought of past pleasure increases my paine,
When I sadly reflect she will nere come againe.
For without my Belinda my life's but a curse:
The thought of past pleasure increases my paine,
When I sadly reflect she will nere come againe.
Belinda forsaken by him she loves best,
Returns all her scorne on her true lover's breast:
Philander in pitty to love her inclin'd,
Was banish'd, that Strephon againe might prove kind.
Soe he that loves ill, is fortunate made,
And he that loves well is for loving betraid.
Returns all her scorne on her true lover's breast:
Philander in pitty to love her inclin'd,
Was banish'd, that Strephon againe might prove kind.
Soe he that loves ill, is fortunate made,
And he that loves well is for loving betraid.
LXIX.
WHAT IS LIFE WITHOUT LOVE?
If languishing eyes without language can move,
I have oft told my Phillis I die for her love;
Ah! pity the passion which words cannot speake,
Could I tell what I thinke my poore heart would not breake.
I have oft told my Phillis I die for her love;
Ah! pity the passion which words cannot speake,
Could I tell what I thinke my poore heart would not breake.
