When wilt thou break my stubborn heart? O death how slow to take my part? Whatever I pursue, denies Death, death itself, like Myra flies.
Love and despair like twins, possest, At the last fatal birth my breast! No hope could be, her scorn was all, That to my distant lot could fall.
I thought alas! that love could dwell, But in warm climes where no snow fell; Like plants that kindly heat require, To be maintain'd by constant fire.
That, without hope, 'twould die as soon, A little hope—but I have none: On air the poor Camelions thrive: Deny'd even that, my love can live.
As toughest trees in storms are bred, And grow in spite of winds, and spread; The more the tempest tears and shakes, My love, the deeper root it takes.
Despair, that Aconite does prove, And certain death to other's love, That poison never yet withstood, Does nourish mine, and turn to food.
O! for what crime is my torn heart, Condemn'd to suffer deathless smart? Like sad Prometheus, thus to lie, In endless pain, and never die.
