To Amasia ("Enough — 'tis done, the")

Enough — 'tis done, the fatal Work is done,
Now, Cruel fair! you may disdain me on.
No further ills has he to fear, who feels
More Mortal Pains —
Than Wretches dash'd on Rocks, or broke on Wheels.
The flourishing Oak shakes, when the tempest blows;
The naked Tree does it's bare Trunk expose,
Nor bows, nor shakes, tho' the Winds fury grows.
Frown, gloomy Heaven! pour fast your Thunders down,
All that I can, I have already known;
Frown gloomy Heav'n, and fair Amasia, frown.
Let me the worst extreams of Rigour try,
Heap on me all at once, I can but die.
Who, who's that Wretch who can your Vengeance flee?
Or where's the Man who dares not die for thee?
Scorning, I laugh at those who boast their fall,
Slighting all Deaths, and yet afraid of all.
Why should I Perish; No, Amasia, no,
So tho' I fell, I could not gain you so;
Love is Romantick in the Shades below.
Death is a Thought should never sooth Despair,
For I can meet no kind Amasia there;
Where shall I find thee then, O tell me, where?
Thro' Seas, thro' Fires, o'er Mountains would I go,
O'er Mountains cover'd with Eternal Snow:
Thro' Salvage Wilds, thro' Dens and Forrests rove,
Thro' the whole Universe, to gain thy Love.
Tho' I disdain with flatt'ring Vows to Whine,
Hear me, yon starry roof, hear me, ye Pow'rs Divine!
There are no dangers under Heav'n —
I would not brave, to have Amasia mine.