To CYNTHIA.

BY all the Sacred Powers I love ye so
There's nothing else so dear to me below;
And when your Cruel Scorn I would forsake,
Shunning the Rock that threatens me with wrack,
Some Angel stops my speed, and brings the Rover back.
Madam, my Heart no blemish yet has stain'd,
And never has deserv'd to be disdain'd,
Nor is it to be fool'd with ease,
But you may break it when you please,
Like melting Ore, your kindness makes it run.
But rigour turns it to a Stone,
And I had rather dye then see you frown:
So much your Influence you prove,
So much so tenderly I love,
And think not, dearest Saint, I can deceive,
But as you hope to be believ'd, believe;
By Heaven and you my Life blooms or decays,
You point my wane or my encrease of days;
Fain, I confess, I would despair forget,
I would be bless'd if you thought fit,
Yet I too much your self-will'd Rigour fear,
For ah, what hopes is there of Love from her,
Whose very Soul is Love, and yet the word disdains to hear.