“So calm and so serene but now;
What means this change on Myra’s brow?
Her love now glows and burns,
Then chills and shakes, and the cold fit returns.
Mock’d with deluding looks and smiles
When on her pity I depend;
My airy hope she soon beguiles,
And laughs to see my torments end.
So up the steepy hill with pain,
The weighty stone is roll’d in vain,
Which having touch’d the top recoils,
And leaves the labourer to renew his toils.”
“To love, is to be doom’d on earth to feel
What after death the tortur’d meet in hell.
The vulture dipping in Prometheus’ side
His bloody beak, with his torn liver dy’d,
Is love: the stone that labours up the hill
Mocking the labourer’s toil, returning still,
Is love: those streams where Tantalus is curst
To sit, and never drink, with endless thirst;
Those loaden boughs that with their burden bend
To court his taste and yet escape his hand,
All this is love; that to dissembled joys
Invites vain men, with real grief destroys.”
“As Britain in rich soil abounding wide,
Furnish’d for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton sails on every shore
For foreign wealth, insatiate still for more;
To her own wool the silks of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests Indian mines: