In vain, alas! poor Strephon tries
To ease his tortured breast,
Since Amoret the cure denies,
And makes his pain a jest.
Ah! fair one, why to me so coy,
And why to him so true?
Who with more coldness slights the joy
Than I with love pursue.
Die, then, unhappy lover, die;
For since she gives thee death,
The world has nothing that can buy
A minute more of breath.
Yet though I could your scorn outlive,
'Twere folly, since to me
Not love itself a joy can give,
But, Amoret, in thee.
More verses by Matthew Prior
- Erle Robert's Mice. In Chaucer's Style
- To A Child Of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author Then Forty
- Protogenes And Apelles
- Hans Carvel
- Songs Set To Music: 4. Set By Mr. Smith