THESE Lines I send, impatient of your Stay,
To you, my Lord, who kill me with Delay;
Yet crave not any Answer back, beside
Yourself, the best of Answers to your Bride.
Sure  so hateful to the  Dames,
Is ruin'd now, with dire, consuming Flames;
Tho' scarcely  nor all her King could boast,
Was worth the Trouble, which her Ruin cost.
O! had lewd PARIS sunk beneath the Tide,
When, o'er the Seas, he sought the  Bride;
I had not then accus'd the ling'ring Day,
Nor weav'd, to charm the tedious Night away;
Nor in the Bed, deserted and forlorn,
Lain weeping, cold and comfortless, till Morn.