William Walsh (1663–1708)

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.