Rivals

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.

William Walsh

The Despairing Lover

DISTRACTED with care,

For Phillis the fair,

Since nothing could move her,

Poor Damon, her lover,

Resolves in despair

No longer to languish,

Nor bear so much anguish;

But, mad with his love,

To a precipice goes;

Where a leap from above

Would soon finish his woes.

When in rage he came there,

Beholding how steep

The sides did appear,

And the bottom how deep,

His torments projecting

And sadly reflecting,

That a lover forsaken

A new love may get;

But a neck, when once broken,

Can never be set:

And that he could die

Whenever he would;

But that he could live

But as long as he could:

How grievous soever

The torment might grow,

He scorn'd to endeavour

To finish it so.

But bold, unconcern'd

At thoughts of the pain,

He calmly return'd

To his cottage again.

William Walsh