COY Coelia, dost thou see Yon hollow mountain tottering o'er the plain, O'er which a fatal tree With treacherous shade betrays the sleepy swain? Beneath it is a cell, As full of horror as my breast of care: Ruin therein might dwell, As a fit room for guilt and black despair. Thence will I headlong throw This wretched weight, this heap of misery, And in the dust below Bury my carcase and the thought of thee: Which when I finish'd have, O, hate me dead, as thou hast done alive; And come not near my grave, Lest I take heat from thee, and so revive. |