1.

In mine one Monument I lye,
And in my Self am buried;
Sure the quick Lightning of her Eye
Melted my Soul ith' Scabberd, dead;
And now like some pale ghost I walk,
And with anothers Spirit talk.

2.

Nor can her beams a heat convey
That may my frozen bosome warm,
Unless her Smiles have pow'r, as they
That a cross charm can countercharm;
But this is such a pleasing pain,
I'm loth to be alive again.