ALAS for me!--ah! would that it were true
I did not love thee--tyrant, then would I
With calmness bear thy taunting jealousy,
Thy looks severe--thy cold averted eye,
And bear, without an anguish'd smile, to view
Attentions paid where ne'er they can be due.
Ah! then would I in pride of heart suppress
The rising sigh--in joyous garb so dress
My features all--that none my grief should guess.
This would I do, but that I love too well
By haughtiness in bitter kind to pay
Those cruel doubts, that o'er thee have such sway,
And so our moments vex;--that sooth to say,
'Twere better die than thus in mis'ry dwell--
Thy burning jealousies our mutual hell!
Alas for me!--if thou wilt not believe
My heart is only thine--then tyrant, take
Thy poignard, and at once thy mind relieve;
For thine own image--thou a tomb wilt make.