Classic Poem

I

S HEE sighs as if shee would restore
The life she tooke away before;
As if shee did recant my doom,
And sweetly would repine mee hom:
Such hope to one condemn'd appeares
From every whisper, that hee hears;
 But what do such vaine hopes avail,
 If those sweet sighs compose a gale,
 To drive mee hence, and swell my sail?

II

See, see, shee weeps! who would not sweare
That Love descended in that teare,
Boasting him of his wounded Prize
Thus in the bleedeing of her eyes?
Or that those teares with just Pretence
Would quench the fyre that came from thence?
 But oh! they are (which strikes mee dead)
 Christall, her frozen heart has bred,
 Nether in Love nor Pittie shed.

III

Thus of my Merit jealous growne,
My happinesse I dare not owne,
But wretchedly her Favours wear,
Blinde to my selfe, unjust to her
Whose sighs, and teares at least discover
She Pitties, if not Loves her Lover:
 And more betrayes the Tyran's Skill,
 Than any blemish in her will,
 That thus Laments whom she doth kill.

IV

Pittie still (Sweet) my dying state,
My Flame may sure pretend to that,
Since it was only unto thee
I gave my life and Libertie;
Howere my Life's Misfortune's laid,
By Love I'm Pitties Object made.
 Pittie mee then, and if thou heare
 I'me dead, drop such another teare,
 And I am payd my full Arrear.