  I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn, Since that poor swain that sighs for you, For you alone was born; No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move A surer way I'll try,— And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, and die. When, kill'd with grief, Amintas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall, That welcome hour that ends his smart Will then begin your pain, For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain. J. Wilmot, Earl of Rochester |
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