" Fie, fie, fierce Tyrant! Quench this furious rage!
O quench this rageous fury, little god!
Nay, mighty god! my fury's heat assuage!
Nor are thine little darts, nor brittle rod!
Ah, that thou hadst a sweet recuring dart!
Or such a rod as into health might whip me!
With this, to level at my troubled heart;
To warn with scourge, that no bright eye might trip me! "
Vain words, which vanish with the clouds, why speak I!
How oft, enraged in hopeless passion, break I!
How oft, in false vain hope, and blank despair!
How oft left lifeless at thy cloudy frown!
How oft in passion mounted, and plucked down!