| |
|
I.
In
mine one monument I lye,
And in my self am buried;
Sure, the quick lightning of her eye
Melted my
soul ith' scabberd dead;
And now like some pale
ghost I walk,
And with another's spirit talk.
II.
Nor can her beams a heat convey,
That
may my frozen bosome warm,
Unless her smiles have
pow'r, as they,
That a cross charm can countercharm.
But this is such a pleasing pain,
I'm loth to be
alive again.
|
|
|
