A La Bourbon Done Moy Plus De Pitie Ou Plus De Creaulte, Car Sans Ci Ie Ne Puis Pas Viure, Ne Morir

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Divine Destroyer, pitty me no more,

Or else more pitty me;

Give me more love, ah, quickly give me more,

Or else more cruelty!

For left thus as I am,

My heart is ice and flame;

And languishing thus, I

Can neither live nor dye!

II.

Your glories are eclipst, and hidden in the grave

Of this indifferency;

And, Caelia, you can neither altars have,

Nor I, a Diety:

They are aspects divine,

That still or smile, or shine,

Or, like th' offended sky,

Frowne death immediately.