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 to find   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 slight 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.