Silence.

CUrse on this Tongue, that has my Heart betray'd,
And his great Secret open laid!
For of all persons chiefly She,
Should not the ills I suffer know;
Since 'tis a thing might dang'rous grow,
Onely in Her to Pity Me:
Since 'tis for Me to lose my Life more fit,
Then 'tis for Her to save and ransome it.

Ah, never more shall thy unwilling ear
My helpless story hear.
Discourse and talk awake does keep
The rude unquiet pain,
That in my Brest does raign;
Silence perhaps may make it sleep:
I'll bind that Sore up, I did ill reveal▪
The Wound, if once it Close, may chance to Heal.

No, 'twill ne'r heal; my Love will never dye,
Though it should speechless lye.
A River, ere it meet the Sea,
As well might stay it's source,
As my Love can his course,
Unless it joyn and mix with Thee.
If any end or stop of it be found,
We know the Flood runs still, though underground.