English poem
LINES, From a disappointed Lover to his obdurate Mistress, after recovering from his paroxysm of Love
by Anonymous
An angel of the darkest hue, Sent here from Satan's realm below, Would torture less by far than you, Maria, author of my woe.
For you, by necromantick art, My soul did fill with dire despair; Of vivid joy bereft my heart, And plac'd it in corroding care.
But now each charm, each winning grace, Which once my ravish'd soul did please, And all the beauties of thy face, Have no effect—my mind's at ease.
No more on bended knee I crave On me to look with piteous eye; No more I beg my life to save, No more shalt thou my suit deny.
For, on those sparkling eyes so black, And lips so sweet of rosy hue, And breasts of snow, I've turn'd my back, Care not a fig for them or you.
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