Song

How hardly I concealed my tears,
...How oft did I complain!
When, many tedious days, my fears
...Told me I loved in vain.

But now my joys as wild are grown,
...And hard to be concealed;
Sorrow may make a silent moan,
...But joy will be revealed.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,
...To every stream and tree;
And bless the hollow murmuring rocks
...For echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much joy
...We want, we wish, believe;
'Tis hard such passion to destroy
...But easy to deceive.

Anne Wharton (?1659-85)