To feel keen torturing doubts, or to despair
And moping sit in melancholy mood,
To feel the gusts of love and wild desire,
And know friends, fortune, person, all combine
To blast our hopes—or to feel tortures keener still,
To see a rival snatch away the prize;
Heavens! ’tis too horrible—the keenest pangs
That e’er the body felt, stone or rheumatic,
Amputated limb, nay, even gout itself
Is perfect ease compared with hopeless love.