That without Hope 'twou'd die as soon,

A little Hope———But I have none:
On Air the poor Camelions thrive,
Deny'd even that, my Love can live.

As toughest Trees in Storms are bred,

And grow in spight of Winds, and spread;
The more the Tempest tears and shakes
My Love, the deeper Root it takes.

Despair, that Aconite does prove,

And certain Death to other's Love,
That Poison, never yet withstood,
Does nourish mine, and turns to Food.

O! for what Crime is my torn Heart

Condemn'd to suffer deathless Smart?
Like sad Prometheus, thus to lye
In endless Pain, and never dye.