by William Wycherley
Ah! Dear, proud Charmer, cou'd you prove
At once more Cruel, or less Fair,
Your Cruelty wou'd speak some Love,
In turning Mine to strong Despair;
For luke-warm Love, or cold Indifference,
Keeps with more Pain my Flame in more Suspence.
To make me Yours, you still disdain,
Yet can't consent to let me go;
I of such Kindness must complain,
Which makes you but more cruel grow;
Then let your Presence give my Passion Ease,
Or let my Love, by kinder Absence, cease.
In Pity then, too barb'rous Dear,
A more obliging Hate confess;
Make me discard my Hope, or Fear,
Be kinder, or more Scorn express;
For sure to Me it would be more Relief
To die for Love, than linger on in Grief.
Long Expectations giv'n in vain,
Make any Blessing but too dear;
Kindness, which keeps us still in Pain,
Is but too lovingly severe;
Then prove more Love, or shew more Cruelty,
To make me longer live, or sooner die.
If that my Death thy Pleasure be,
Thy Scorn the murth'ring Stroke can give;
One cruel Glance will set me free,
One Smile of Comfort make me live:
Then grant me Love, or kindle up Disdain,
Since, next to Pleasure, 'tis to feel no Pain.
Last updated May 19, 2019