Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease [i]
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for Love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
[Footnote i:
'does this fell disease'.
[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.]