Depriv'd of all that mortals hold most dear,
The world's free converse, and the social ear;
Depriv'd of ev'ry pleasurable scene,
The forest's foliage, and the meadow's green;
Where can this wretched bosom find repose?
Without is wildness, and within are woes:
To whom dissolve in sorrow's simple lay,
And softly sigh its miseries away?
To whom but thee; where all my wishes tend,
My lovely mistress, and my faithful friend:
To whom but thee; of all the gods have left,
The greatest blessing, and the latest gift.

Books, unperceiv'd, may steal the lagging hour,
And sear the wounds they strive in vain to cure,
May for a moment soothe the troubled mind,
But still remains a dreadful void behind;
The pliant passions, hinder'd in their course,
Collect their rage, and strike with double sorce;
Their waves repress'd, with double fury roll,
O'erwhelm, confound, and stupify the soul.
Hard are the wayward fates, that thus oppose
A mortal wight against immortal foes;
That, unconcern'd, behold us from afar
Waging an endless, an unequal war;
Hard is our fate! yet never had my cry
Impeach'd the rigid ruler of the sky;
Never my murmurs, my complaints, been heard,
Had thy sweet voice my drooping spirits cheer'd;
Thy hands sustain'd me sainting in the field,
My bleeding wounds thy wisdom's balsam heal'd.
Not such the happiness awaits my days,
For ever banish'd from thy beauty's blaze;
Weigh'd down by life's whole complicated woes,
Never to rise from whence none ever rose!
I slide, by all unnoted, to the tomb;
Tir'd of the present, court a world to come.
Whate'er my hopes, forgive this parting tear!
They soon shall wither on the mournful bier;
Soon with this crazy frame for ever lost,
Hide their aspiring turrets in the dust.
Farewel, dear maid! conjecture what I feel,
In youth to bid the maid I love farewel:
Farewel, dear maid! and never may'st thou be
A pining, plaintive, dying wretch, like me.