Some prince of subterraneous fire, she deem’d
His favours snares, his presents only given
To shake her faith, and steal her soul from heaven.
Still then her loathing heart remain’d the same,
Joy’d when he went, and shudder’d when he came;
And when to share his fruits by hunger press’d,
Ever she bless’d them first, and cross’d her breast.
Days creep—months roll—no change! no hope! and oh!
Rosalvo lost, what hope can life bestow?
Death, only death, she feels, can end her woes;