To Amasia ("Could the true Lover all")

Could the true Lover all his ills declare,
Make known his tedious suff'rings to his fair,
Sure, she would kindly listen to his Pray'r,
Sure, all his Woes would some Compassion move,
Sure, she would Pity, tho' she could not Love.
Hear, hear, Amasia, what I feel for you,
For by your self, by your Dear self, 'tis true,
I Love almost to madness — Gods! I do.
My Eyes no rest, my Soul no quiet knows,
Sylvius is tortur'd, whereso'er he goes,
No peaceful slumbers Crown me with repose.
All Day I rave of thee, and all the Night,
Ev'n in the gloom, I have thee in my sight,
Nor am I Cheer'd by the all-Cheering light.
Wing'd with my sighs, the Minutes slowly fly,
When every Mortal Creature sleeps — but I.
Why do you rack me thus, Dear Charmer! why?
Now wild Chimaera's in my fancy grow,
Now, now I think I see thy Beauties glow,
And strait my gushing Tears in Torrents flow.
Flow on, ye Streams, Flow, ye Tumultuous Streams,
Not all your deluges can quench my Flames.
Excuse each Blot, which to your view appears,
I stain the Paper less with Ink than Tears.
Strange force of Love, which can such wonders do!
Raising our Souls to make them lower bow.
Thus, while it Works me to the last excess,
Making me more than Man, it makes me less.
Each tedious moment of the Night I sigh,
As on my Bed, lodg'd like Despair, I lie,
No Creature there, no living Creature Nigh.
Plac'd near my Feet, a silent Taper stands,
But not like Hymen's, when he Joyns kind hands.
Like Death's Pale Torch, a glimm'ring light it yields,
Or like the Glow-worm Fires in Winter Fields.
Sometimes my fancy shows me Pale and dead,
And direful Furies yelling round my Head.
Again — (what ev'n would be in Death deny'd)
I see Amasia Mourning by my side,
And hear her sighing Cry, — I come, thy Bride.
Convinc'd at last, her Charms my Soul could […]
Convinc'd at last, that I did truly Love.
Sylvius, with thee, down to the Shades below,
With her own Sylvius shall Amasia go.
There, thy firm Love, thy Constancy, to Crown,
Thy Lov'd Amasia shall be thine alone.
Rais'd by this Thought, I strive to seize my fair,
But Oh! I find no dear Amasia there.
Your very Image […] —
And nought is left me real, — but Despair.
From side to side, guiltless of sleep I turn,
And now I Freeze, now, as in Feavers, burn.
Oft on thy Name, and oft on Heav'n I call,
And Kneel to every Pow'r, and Pray to all.
Then, hush'd by Weeping, as the Wind by Show'rs,
I speak in softest Murmurs only yours.
Amasia — Dear Amasia — then I sigh,
Amasia sleeps — and all things sleep — but I;
The Virgin sleeps, and will not hear my Cry.
O may the softest, Golden slumbers Crown,
Her Charming Eyes, and every trouble drown,
Since I am Curst, may I be so alone.
On me the worst, the heaviest Sorrows fall,
All may she scape, save her, kind Heav'n from all.