A Pastoral Ode

Coy Cœlia dost thou see
Yon hollow mountaine tottering o're the plaine,
O're which a fatall Tree
With treacherous shade betrayes the sleepy swaine?
Beneath it is a Cell,
As full of horrour as my brest of care,
Ruine therein might dwell;
As a fit roome for guilt and black dispaire.
Thence will I headlong throw
This wretched weight, this heape of misery;
And in the dust below,
Bury my Carcasse, and the thought of thee:
Which when I finish'd have,
O hate me dead, as thou hast done alive;
And come not neare my grave
Least I take heat from thee, and so revive.
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