Celia to AmintorI.
Since God , whom we continually offend ,
Is still so merciful , that he forgives ,
Man , sure! a pitying ear may justly lend,
When Woman , penitent, in sorrow, lives.
The mournful dove , when absent from her mate ,
Sits, brooding melancholy , all alone;
Pines, and bemoans, her separated state,
And all the groves can ne'er the loss attone.
So, I, depriv'd of all, I hold most dear,
My much-mourn'd lover , and my tend'rest friend ;
Hear reason whisper, in my conscious ear,
That only your blest sight my grief can end.
Sure, if I see you not, before I sleep ,
A second Niobe I shall become;
Fly, then, Amintor , give my woe relief,
Rather, than vex you, I'll be always dumb .
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