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WILLIAM WALSH

1663-1708

440                                                     Rivals

OF all the torments, all the cares,
   With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
   Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind
   Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
   Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
   Are labouring in my breast,
I beg not you would favour me,
   Would you but slight the rest!
How great soeer your rigours are,
   With them alone Ill cope;
I can endure my own despair,
   But not anothers hope.

 

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