49. Return
—— J. Wilmot
Abnt from thee, I languish still;
Then ask me not, when l return?
The straying fool ’twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear, from thine arms the me fly,
That my fantastid may prove
The torments it derves to try,
That tears my fix’d heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire,
Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,
May I tehere expire!
Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some ba heart u;
Faithless to thee, fal, unfiven—
And lo my everlasti.