Set forth lover’s torments with all due preface.
That archness of look of my coquettish Swain
Anew has my heart fired with love’s brand of pain.
I gave Him permission to pour out my blood.
I spoke of permission. He fled me for good.
Why fleest thus, always, the groans of complaint?
Why pourest Thou suffering’s floods on the faint?255
O Thou, whom each morn, as it dawns in the East,
Has found, like the sun, full prepared for a feast,
What cause have I furnished for all this sad pain,