WILLIAM WALSH

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.