I feel ill-at-ease on this wasted heath,
Who in this ephemeral world has ever found relief?
The nightingale has no complains against the hunter or the watch,
It is her fate to lie in cage, and spring in every mead!
My desires were better advised to find a new resort,
Where in my scalded heart is space enough to breath?
We have borrowed this long life on four days lease,
Two were spent in yearnings vain, two by waiting seized.
The day of life is nearly done, the shades of night approach,
We shall sleep in the grave, stretching both our feet.
How unlucky is Swan, mark! For his burial place,
He couldn’t find two yards of ground in his love’s street.
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