Forsaken of my kindly stars,
Within this melancholy grove
I waste my days and nights in tears,
A victim to ingrateful Love.

The happy still untimely end:
Death flies from grief; or why should I
So many hours in sorrow spend,
Wishing, alas! in vain to die?

Ye Powers! take pity of my pain;
This, only this, is my desire;
Ah! take from Mira her disdain,
Or let me with this sigh expire.