I love, alas, alas, yet am not loved

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;

Deeming his life a Scene, the world a Stage,

Whereon man acts his weary Pilgrimage.