44
POEMS.
Yet absence has proved to me kind,
And my bosom once more is at rest;
Healed up is the wound of my mind,
And cold is the flame in my breast:
But again when her beauties I view,
I feel I again shall adore;
My wound will burst open anew,
And my flame burn as fierce as before.
And my bosom once more is at rest;
Healed up is the wound of my mind,
And cold is the flame in my breast:
But again when her beauties I view,
I feel I again shall adore;
My wound will burst open anew,
And my flame burn as fierce as before.
Yet my danger in vain I perceive;
Though I know to my ruin I run,
I will not my reason believe,
Which bids me the precipice shun:
For if Amoret fastens my chains,
I never shall wish to be free;
And if she is pleased with my pains,
Those pains shall be cherished by me!
Though I know to my ruin I run,
I will not my reason believe,
Which bids me the precipice shun:
For if Amoret fastens my chains,
I never shall wish to be free;
And if she is pleased with my pains,
Those pains shall be cherished by me!
