The Coquette

When tortured by the cruel fair,
And almost mad with wild despair,
My fleeting spirits rove,
One cordial glance restores her slave,
Redeems me from the gaping grave,
And soothes my soul to love.

Thus in a sea of doubt, I'm tost,
Now sunk, now thrown upon the coast:
What wretch can long endure
Such odd perplexing pangs as these,
When neither mortal the disease,
Nor yet complete the cure?

Proud tyrant! since to save or kill
Depends on thy capricious will,
This milder sentence give;
Reverse my strange untoward fate;
O! let me perish by thy hate,
Or by thy kindness live!