Thousands in death would seek an end of woe;
But hope, deceitful hope! prevents the blow.
Hope plants the forest, and she sows the plain;
And feeds, with future granaries, the swain:
Hope snares the winged vagrants of the sky,
Hope cheats in reedy brooks the scaly fry;
By hope, the fetter'd slave, the drudge of fate,
Sings, shakes his irons, and forgets his state;
Hope promis'd you; you, haughty, still deny;
Yield to the goddess; O my fair! comply.
Hope whisper'd me, " Give sorrow to the wind!
The haughty fair-one shall at last be kind."
Yet, yet, you treat me with the same disdain:
O let not hope's soft whispers prove in vain!
Untimely fate your sister snatch'd away;
Spare me, O spare me; by her shade I pray!
So shall my garlands deck her virgin-tomb;
So shall I weep, no hypocrite, her doom!
So may her grave with rising flowers be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on her breast.
Ah me, will nought avail? the world I'll fly,
And, prostrate at her tomb, a suppliant sigh!
To her attentive ghost of you complain;
Tell my long sorrowing, tell of your disdain.
Oft, when alive, in my behalf she spoke:
Your endless coyness must her shade provoke;
With ugly dreams she'll haunt your hour of rest,
And weep before you, an unwelcome guest!
Ghastly and pale, as when besmear'd with blood,
Oh, fatal fall! she pass'd the Stygian flood.
No more, my strains! your eyes with tear o'er flow,
This moving object renovates your woe:
You, you are guiltless! I your maid accuse;
You generous are! she, she has selfish views.
Nay, were you guilty, I'll no more complain;
One tear from you o'erpays a life of pain.
She, Phryne, promis'd to promote my vows:
She took, but never gave my billet-doux.
You're gone abroad, she confidently swears,
Oft when your sweet-ton'd voice salutes mine ears:
Or, when you promise to reward my pains,
That you're afraid, or indispos'd, she feigns:
Then madding jealousy inflames my breast;
Then fancy represents a rival bless'd:
I wish thee, Phryne! then a thousand woes; —
And if the gods with half my wishes close,
Phryne! a wretch of wretches thou shalt be,
And vainly beg of death to set thee free.
But hope, deceitful hope! prevents the blow.
Hope plants the forest, and she sows the plain;
And feeds, with future granaries, the swain:
Hope snares the winged vagrants of the sky,
Hope cheats in reedy brooks the scaly fry;
By hope, the fetter'd slave, the drudge of fate,
Sings, shakes his irons, and forgets his state;
Hope promis'd you; you, haughty, still deny;
Yield to the goddess; O my fair! comply.
Hope whisper'd me, " Give sorrow to the wind!
The haughty fair-one shall at last be kind."
Yet, yet, you treat me with the same disdain:
O let not hope's soft whispers prove in vain!
Untimely fate your sister snatch'd away;
Spare me, O spare me; by her shade I pray!
So shall my garlands deck her virgin-tomb;
So shall I weep, no hypocrite, her doom!
So may her grave with rising flowers be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on her breast.
Ah me, will nought avail? the world I'll fly,
And, prostrate at her tomb, a suppliant sigh!
To her attentive ghost of you complain;
Tell my long sorrowing, tell of your disdain.
Oft, when alive, in my behalf she spoke:
Your endless coyness must her shade provoke;
With ugly dreams she'll haunt your hour of rest,
And weep before you, an unwelcome guest!
Ghastly and pale, as when besmear'd with blood,
Oh, fatal fall! she pass'd the Stygian flood.
No more, my strains! your eyes with tear o'er flow,
This moving object renovates your woe:
You, you are guiltless! I your maid accuse;
You generous are! she, she has selfish views.
Nay, were you guilty, I'll no more complain;
One tear from you o'erpays a life of pain.
She, Phryne, promis'd to promote my vows:
She took, but never gave my billet-doux.
You're gone abroad, she confidently swears,
Oft when your sweet-ton'd voice salutes mine ears:
Or, when you promise to reward my pains,
That you're afraid, or indispos'd, she feigns:
Then madding jealousy inflames my breast;
Then fancy represents a rival bless'd:
I wish thee, Phryne! then a thousand woes; —
And if the gods with half my wishes close,
Phryne! a wretch of wretches thou shalt be,
And vainly beg of death to set thee free.