Tixall Poetry/To Hope
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XXII.
To Hope.
Goe, treacherous hope, by whose deceitfull fire,
I've cherisht my tiranicall desire;
Love is a more unconstant guest then care,
And my fate such,
That it will cost as much
To love, as to dispaire.
I've cherisht my tiranicall desire;
Love is a more unconstant guest then care,
And my fate such,
That it will cost as much
To love, as to dispaire.
Tis true our lives are but a long disease,
Made up of real cares, and seeming ease.
Ye Gods, who these uncertain favours give,
O, tell me why,
It is so hard to die,
Yet such a taske to live.
Made up of real cares, and seeming ease.
Ye Gods, who these uncertain favours give,
O, tell me why,
It is so hard to die,
Yet such a taske to live.