A La Bourbon. Done Moy Plus De Pitie Ou Plus De Creaulte, Car Sans Ci Ie Ne Puis Pas Viure, Ne Morir

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I.
Divine Destroyer, pitty me no more,
  Or else more pitty me;
Give me more love, ah, quickly give me more,
  Or else more cruelty!
  For left thus as I am,
  My heart is ice and flame;
  And languishing thus, I
  Can neither live nor dye!

 II.
Your glories are eclipst, and hidden in the grave
  Of this indifferency;
And, Caelia, you can neither altars have,
  Nor I, a Diety:
  They are aspects divine,
  That still or smile, or shine,
  Or, like th' offended sky,
  Frowne death immediately.

© Richard Lovelace