SONNET. (Ah! why did heaven such angel-charms bestow)

Ah! why did heaven such angel-charms bestow, To make me gaze, and sicken with desire? Why every virtue lavish on thee so, To fan a strong, but ineffectual fire?

To me, alas! inexorable fate Denies that tribute I aspir'd to pay, Yet may I live untortur'd by thy hate, Since, how I lov'd, thou hast forbad me say!

If e'er, the captive of those angel-charms, A future swain his passion shall declare, Some happier omen guide him to thy arms, Crown'd be that passion by some kinder star! But may that future swain in merit equal thee, And in his constancy alone resemble me!