IN vain, alas! poor Strephon tries To ease his tortured breast; Since Amoret the cure denies, And makes his pain a jest. Ah! fair one, why to me so coy, And why to him so true; Who with more coldness slights the joy, Than I with love pursue? Die then, unhappy lover! die, For, since she gives thee death, The world has nothing that can buy A minute more of breath. Yet, though I could your scorn outlive, 'Twere folly; since to me Not love itself a joy can give, But, Amoret, in thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS IN ABSENCE: 7. THE SHIP by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH FRIENDSHIP by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE LORD OF BURLEIGH by ALFRED TENNYSON A LAMENT FOR PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |