WILLIAM WALSH 440 Rivals
OF all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are curst; Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst' By partners in each other kind
Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast, I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest' How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope; I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
��LADY GRISEL BAILLIE 441 Werena my Heart licht I wad dee
THERE ance was a may, and she lo'ed na men; She biggit her bonnic bow'r doun in yon glen; But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day' Come doun the green gait and come here away'
441 may] maid. biggit] built. g"ait] way, path.
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