Page:Poems upon Several Occasions.djvu/45

Rh That without Hope 'twou'd die as soon, A little HopeBut 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.



Rh