Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Unhappy Love

​
Unhappy Love.
I see she flies me everywhere,
 Her eyes her scorn discover;
But what's her scorn, or my despair,
 Since 'tis my fate to love her?
Were she but kind whom I adore,
I might live longer, but not love her more.
 1726.

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.