The PETITION

Is there a pious Pleasure, that proceeds From Contemplation of our virtuous Deeds? That all mean, sordid Actions we despise, And scorn to gain a Throne by Cheats and Lies? Thyrsis, thou sure hast Blessings laid in Store, From thy just dealing in this curst Amour. What Honour can in Words or Deeds be shown, Which to the Fair thou hast not said and done? On her false Heart they all are thrown away; She only swears, more ear'ly to betray. Ye Powers! that know the many Vows she broke, Free my Just Soul from this unequal Yoke! My Love boils up, and, like a raging Flood, Runs thro my Veins, and taints my vital Blood. I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste, Or with an equal Passion burn at last; The one she cannot practise, tho' she would, And I contemn the other, tho' she should, Nor ask I Vengeance on the perjur'd Jilt; 'Tis Punishment enough to have her Guilt. I beg but Balsam for my bleeding Breast, Cure for my Wounds, and from my labours Rest.