I love, alas, alas, yet am not loved,
For cruel she to pity is not moved.
My constant love with scorn she ill rewardeth,
Only my sighs a little she regardeth,
Yet more and more the quenchless fire increaseth,
Which to my greater torment never creaseth.
As matchless beauty thee a Phoenix proves
Fair Leonilla, so thy sour-sweet loves.
For when young Acon's eye thy proud heart tames,
Thou diest in him, and livest in my flames.
Happy, O happy he, who not affecting
The endless toils attending worldly cares,
With mind reposed, all discontents rejecting,
In silent peace his way to heaven prepares;
In silent peace his way to heaven prepares;
Deeming his life a Scene, the world a Stage,
Whereon man acts his weary Pilgrimage.