Me lonely ſitting, nor the glimmering Light
Of make-weight Candle, nor the joyous talk
Of lovely friends delights; diſtreſs’d, forlorn,
Amidſt the horrors of the tedious night,
Darkling I ſigh, and feed with diſmal Thoughts
My anxious Mind; or ſometimes mournful Verſe
Indite, and ſing of Groves and Myrtle Shades,
Or deſperate Lady near a purling stream,
Or Lover pendant on a Willow-tree;
Mean while I labour with eternal drought,