The Malecontent

Phyllis, O Phyllis! Thou art fondly vain,
My wavering thoughts thus to molest,
Why should my pleasure be the only pain,
That must torment my easy breast?
If with Prometheus I had stolen fire,
Fire from above,
As scorching, and as bright, as that of Love,
I might deserve Jove's ire,
A vulture then might on my liver feed,
But now eternally I bleed,
And yet on Thee, on Thee lies all the blame,
Who freely gav'st the fuel and the flame.