I make no war, and yet no peace have found,
With heat I melt, when starv'd to d**h with cold.
I soar to Heav'n, while grovelling on the ground,
Embrace the world, yet nothing do I hold.
I'm not confin'd, yet cannot I depart,
Nor loose the chain tho' not a captive led;
Love k**s me not, yet wounds me to the heart,
Will neither have m' alive, nor have me dead.
Being blind, I see; not having voice, I cry:
I wish for d**h, while I of Life make choice;
I hate myself, yet love you tenderly;
Do feed of tears, and in my grief rejoice.
Thus, Cynthia, all my health is but disease;
Both life and d**h do equally displease.