| |
|
I cannot
change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain, that sighs for you
For you
alone was born.
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
A surer way I'll try:
And to revenge my slighted
love,
Will still love on, will still love on, and
die.
When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies;
And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now
unpitied rise;
The tears that vainly fall:
That
welcome hour that ends this smart,
Will then begin
your pain;
For such a faithful, tender heart
Can
never break, can never break in vain.
|
|
|
