230
Tixall Poetry.
Upon Mrs E. T.'s Quere
by Her Eyes,
Why I Was Troubled?
Madam, as strange a question it had prov'd,
If you had askt me if I ever lov'd.
When you drop teares, can you ere hope to finde
Any contentment in my wretched minde?
That feeles no joy but yours; shares no other griefe,
And but that you afford it, hates reliefe;
My unruly sorrowes swolne to that excess,
'Tis you alone can make them more or less.
My friendship, or experience might have showne,
How I prefer your safety to my owne;
Reach still a willing, tho' refused hand,
Altho' I fall my selfe, that you may stand.
If you had askt me if I ever lov'd.
When you drop teares, can you ere hope to finde
Any contentment in my wretched minde?
That feeles no joy but yours; shares no other griefe,
And but that you afford it, hates reliefe;
My unruly sorrowes swolne to that excess,
'Tis you alone can make them more or less.
My friendship, or experience might have showne,
How I prefer your safety to my owne;
Reach still a willing, tho' refused hand,
Altho' I fall my selfe, that you may stand.
