I LANGUISH in a silent flame; For she, to whom my vows incline, Doth own perfections so divine, That but to speak were to disclose her name If I should say that she the store Of Nature's graces doth comprise, The love and wonder of all eyes, Who will not guess the beauty I adore? Or though I warily conceal The charms her looks and soul possess; Should I her cruelty express, And say she smiles at all the pains we feel; Among such suppliants as implore Pity, distributing her hate, Inexorable as their fate, Who will not guess the beauty I adore? |