Will grieve the Wound it cannot cure,
And mock the Love it will not share;
While his triumphant Looks convey
The proud Delight that fills his breast, 30
And those dear Eyes themselves betray
The Thoughts not yet by Words confest.
O Jealousy, severest Ill
That suffering Man is doom’d to know,
That so the Root of Joy can kill
The fruit again can never Grow!