WHY, Idol of my Heart, these mournful cries, And so much grief on those fair cheeks appears? From whence proceed those envious showers of tears, Dark'ning the lustre of thy beauteous eyes? How dares bold Sorrow labour to remove So many graces from their proper place? Ah, Cynthia! Pain endeavours, in thy face, To poison all the sweetest charms of Love. Sense of thy grief my soul with anguish fills, Which out of pity into tears distills, And for thy ease would fain endure thy woe! But this affliction, sure thy heart sustains, That, cruel Thou, being sensible of pains, May'st to thy constant martyr pity show. |