Classic Poem

Fortune Sleeps, or is in Love,
Will she never! never move,
Has she fix'd her restless Stone,
Or stands she still to me alone?

Sixty Times the radiant Sun,
His diurnal Course has run;
And sixty Times the sable Night,
Did all to balmy Rest invite;
Since I've known, or Peace, or Joy,
Or quiet Slumber clos'd my Eye:
Thrice with ghastly Looks has Death,
Made Essays to stop my Breath;
Yet the wretched, still he flies,
And mocks a willing Sacrifice.
Why, oh why! is Death unkind?
Since I no Compassion find;
P HAON 's pitiful and free,
To all, alas, to all, but me.

Cruel Fortune , turn thy Wheel,
And disperse this potent Ill;
Let it circulate around,
'Till it has my P HAON found.
Make him rave and die for Love;
Make his Object scornful prove;
Make him feel what I endure;
Make him love without a Cure.

Then oh! then his Heart reclaim,
And make him own my constant Flame.