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 (1663-1708)
