Sonnets, Etc, XII

As a fond mother, whose sick infant lies Weeping, importunate for what she knows If giv'n will double all his pangs and woes, In tenderest mercy his desire denies; Till, moved to pity by his streaming eyes, She can withstand no longer, but in haste Submits the flavourous mischief to his taste, And seals his ruin, though she stills his cries; So to my sick and frenzied thoughts that yearn And plead to me for thee, I would deny The fatal fruit with merciful concern; But night and day they murmur, weep, and pine, Till I, alas, consent to soothe their cry, Forgetful of their death, and ev'n of mine!