Tixall Poetry/Dispaire ("Noe, noe, 'tis in vaine…")

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XXV.

Dispaire.

   Noe, noe, 'tis in vaine   To sigh or complaine, Since the secret Ile never reveale;   The racks shall not teare it   From my breast, but He beare it To my grave, where it ever shall dwell.
O, would that the Gods had created her low, Or plact her poore lover above;Then, then, I might freely a present bestow, Of a hart thats all over in love.
   Like the damn'd from the fire,   I sigh, and admire, But can never presume' to be blest!   Oh! the pangs of a lover,   That dares not discover The passion that's lodg'd in his breast!
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Like a deere that is wounded, I bleeding run on And strive still my passion to hide;But oh! tis in vaine, for wherever I'm gon, The bloudy dart sticks in my side.

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