I.
OH death, thou gentle end of human pain,
Why is thy stroke so long delay’d?
Why to a wretch, who breathes but to complain,
Dost thou refuse thy welcome aid?
Still wilt thou fly the plaintive voice of woe,
And where thou’rt dreaded, only aim the blow.
II.
Oh leave, fantastick tyrant, leave,
The young, the gay, the happy, and the free:
On them bestow a short reprieve,
And bend thy fatal shafts at me.
The beauteous bride, or blooming heir,
Let thy resistless power spare,
And aim at this grief-wounded heart
That springs half way to meet the welcome dart.
III.
Still must I view with streaming eyes,
Another, and another morn arise;
Are my days length’ned to prolong my pain?
Do grief and sickness waste this frame in vain?
A finish’d wretch e’er youth has ceas’d to bloom,
By early sorrow ripen’d for the tomb.