The Desperate Lover

O mighty King of Terrors, come!
Command thy slave to his long home:
Great sanctuary Grave! to thee
In throngs the miserable flee;
Encircled in thy frozen arms,
They bid defiance to their harms,
Regardless of those pond'rous little things
That discompose th' uneasy heads of kings.

In the cold earth the pris'ner lies
Ransom'd from all his miseries;
Himself forgotten, he forgets
His cruel creditors, and debts;
And there in everlasting peace
Contentions with their authors cease.
A turf of grass or monument of stone
Umpires the petty competition.

The disappointed lover there,
Breathes not a sigh, nor sheds a tear;
With us (fond fools) he never shares
In sad perplexities and cares;
The willow near his tomb that grows
Revives his memory, not his woes;
Or rain, or shine, he is advanc'd above
Th' affronts of Heaven and stratagems of Love.

Then, mighty King of Terrors, come,
Command thy slave to his long home.
And thou, my friend, that lov'st me best,
Seal up these eyes that brake my rest;
Put out the lights, bespeak my knell,
And then eternally farewell.
'Tis all th' amends our wretched Fates can give,
That none can force a desperate man to live.