WHICH I pour forth unto a cruel Saint,
Who merciless my prayers doth attend:
Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint;
And never unto my woes will lend.
But still false hope despairing life deludes;
And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain.
But CHLORIS fair, my orisons concludes
With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain.
Thus do I spend the weary wandering day,
Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief:
Thus I consume the obscure night away,
Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief.
Thus I pass my lingering life in woe:
But when my bliss will come, I do not know!