Classic Poem

OF all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
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 labouring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but flight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.