Ye souls of more delicate kind,
Who feast not on pleasure alone,
Who wear the soft sense of the mind,
To the sons of the world are unknown:
Ye know, tho’ I cannot express,
Why I foolishly dote on my pain;
Nor will ye believe it the less
That I have not the skill to complain.
I lean on my hand with a sigh,
My friends the soft sadness condemn,