Tixall Poetry/To Love
XLIII.
To Love.
O Love, if ere thou'dst ease a hart That ownes thy power devine,That bleeds with thy to cruell dart,And pants with never-dying smart, Take pitty now on mine.Under thy shades I fainting lie,A thousand times I wish to die,But when I think cold death draws nighI grieve to loose my pleasing paine,And call my wishes back againe.
But thus as I sat all alone, Ith shady mirtle grove,And to each gentle sigh and moane,Some neighbouring eccho gave a grone, Came by the man I love: O! how I strove my griefs to hide,I fainted, blusht, and almost dide—And did each tattling eccho chide,For fear some breath of neighboring aireShould to his eares my sorrowes beare.
But, O ye Powers, ide die to gaine But one poore parting kisse,And yet ide lie on racks of paineEre ide a thought or wish obtaine That honour thinks amiss.Thus are poor maids unkindly usedBy Love and Nature both abused—And tender harts all ease refused;And when we burn with secret flame,Must die with grief or live with shame.