To MYRA.
I.
O Death, how slow to take my part!
Whatever I pursue, denies,
Death, Death it self, like Myra flies.
II.
At the same fatal Birth my Breast;
No Hope could be, her Scorn was all
That to my destin'd Lot cou'd fall.
III.
But in warm Climes, where no Snow fell;
Like Plants, that kindly Heat require,
To be maintain'd by constant Fire.
IV.
A little Hope
On Air the poor Camelions thrive,
Deny'd even that, my Love can live.
V.
And grow in spight of Winds, and spread;
The more the Tempest tears and shakes
My Love, the deeper Root it takes.
VI.
And certain Death to other's Love,
That Poison, never yet withstood,
Does nourish mine, and turns to Food.
VII.
Condemn'd to suffer deathless Smart?
Like sad Prometheus, thus to lye
In endless Pain, and never dye.