Classic Poem

A Sonnet

Tho' cruel you seem to my pain,
And hate me because I am true,
Yet, Phyllis, you love a false swain,
Who has other nymphs in his view:
Enjoyment's a trifle to him,
To me what a heav'n would it be.
To him but a woman you seem,
But, Ah! you're an angel to me.

Those lips which he touches in haste,
To them I for ever could grow;
Still clinging around that dear waist
Which he spans as beside him you go.
That hand, like a lilly so white,
Which over his shoulder you lay,
My bosom could warm it all night,
My lips they could press it all day.

Were I like a monarch to reign,
Were graces my subjects to be,
I'd leave them and fly to the plain,
To dwell in a cottage with thee.
But if I must feel your disdain,
It tears cannot cruelty drown,
Oh, let me not live in this pain!
But give me my death in a frown.