Şiir 2
Ah me! why am I so uneasy grown?
Ah! why so restless on my bed of down?
Why do I wish to sleep, but wish in vain?
Why am I all the tedious night in pain?
What cause is this, that ease, that rest denies?
5
And why my words break forth in gentle sighs?
Sure I should know if love had fix'd his dart;
Or creeps he softly in with treacherous art,
And then grows tyrant, there and wounds the heart?
'Tis so, the shaft sticks deep, and galls my breast;
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'Tis tyrant love, that robs my thoughts of rest!
Well, shall I tamely yield, or must I fight?
I'll yield; 'tis patience makes a burden light:
A shaken torch grows fierce, and sparks arise;
But, if unmov'd, the fire looks pale and dies.
15
The hard-mouth'd horse smarts for his fierce disdain
The gentle's ridden with a looser rein.
Love smooths the gentle, but the fierce reclaims;
He fires their breasts, and fills their souls with flames.
I yield; great Love, my former crimes forgive,
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