An Ode To Lady Amorous
O how awful is I in knowing thee,
For I who always suffer, restless, and sad;
When thou guide her into my heart and plea,
Can I send thou into her hearts that mad.
My feeling of the on her so strong,
It turns me into a bigot of thee;
Impel thou into her heart is wrong,
Her sincerity of thee is what I plea.
Slowly, I ease thee from my heart,
Along with her vain pictures;
Poignancy wrung when we are apart,
And extinguish all my sacred raptures.