Classic Poem

Of all the torments, all the cares,
—With which our lives are cursed;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
—Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind
—Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate tOfind
—Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
—Are laboring in my breast,
I beg not you would favor me,
—Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigors are,
—With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
—But not another's hope.