Alcino

Beautiful Phyllis, who so stern as thou! May I to thee be bitterer than the broom, And severed from thee, sorrow like the bough Stript of its leaves before the tree's in bloom, If the grey bat that flits around me now More hates the light, and more desires the gloom, Than I to see this day of anguish o'er, To me much longer than a year before!