Since she, even she, for whom I lived

Since she, even she, for whom I lived,
Sweet she by fate from me is torn,
Why am not I of sense deprived,
Forgetting I was ever born?
Why should I languish, hating light?
Better to sleep an endless night.

Be it either true, or aptly feigned,
That some of Lethe's water write,
'Tis their best medicine that are pained
All thought to lose of past delight.
O would my anguish vanish so!
Happy are they that neither know.