To CYNTHIA. Thomas D'Urfey Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. R17889 D'Urfey, Thomas, 1653-1723. New poems, consisting of satyrs, elegies, and odes together with a choice collection of the newest court songs set to musick by the best masters of the age / all written by Mr. D'Urfey. London Printed for J. Bullord ... and A. Roper ... 1690 pp. 129-130. [16],207,[1]p.

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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 .