Let perjured fair Amynta know, What for her sake I undergo; Tell her, for her how I sustain A lingering fever's wasting pain; Tell her, the torments I endure, Which only, only she can cure. But, oh! she scorns to hear, or see, The wretch that lies so low as me; Her sudden greatness turns her brain, And Strephon hopes, alas! in vain; For ne'er 'twas found (though often tried) That pity ever dwelt with pride. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ARIEL'S SONG (1) [OR, DIRGE] [OR, A SEA DIRGE]. FR. THE TEMPEST by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER 1802 by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH WINTER SUNSET by EVA K. ANGLESBURG MY LETTERS by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 11. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE SEVENTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |