chapter  57
A Song.
Pages 1

While, Iris, I at distance gaze, And feed my greedy eyes, That wounded heart, that dyes for you, Dull gazing can’t suffice; 5 Hope is the Food of Love-sick minds, On that alone ’twill Feast, The nobler part which Love refines, No other can digest. In vain, too nice and Charming Maid, 10 I did suppress my Cares; In vain my rising sighs I stay’d, And stop’d my falling tears; The Flood would swell, the Tempest rise, As my despair came on; 15 When from her Lovely cruel Eyes, I found I was undone. Yet at your feet while thus I lye, And languish by your Eyes, ’Tis far more glorious here to dye, 20 Than gain another Prize. Here let me sigh, here let me gaze, And wish at least to find As raptur’d nights, and tender days, As he to whom you’re kind.