Tixall Poetry.
195
LXIII.
Concealed Love.
My life is now a burden grown,
Opprest with constant anguish,
Whilst sicke with griefe I dare not owne,
I thus unpitied languish:
But whilst I burne with secret fire,
My heart, which now is breaking,
Must needs reveale its fond desire,
Without the helpe of speaking.
Opprest with constant anguish,
Whilst sicke with griefe I dare not owne,
I thus unpitied languish:
But whilst I burne with secret fire,
My heart, which now is breaking,
Must needs reveale its fond desire,
Without the helpe of speaking.
Then turne, O turne, those charming eyes,
Upon your gasping lover,
The fatal wound of which he dies
You quickly will discover:
But silently to beare his woe,
Shal be your martyr's glory,
And if one pittying look you shew,
You'll understand his story.
Upon your gasping lover,
The fatal wound of which he dies
You quickly will discover:
But silently to beare his woe,
Shal be your martyr's glory,
And if one pittying look you shew,
You'll understand his story.
