Whilst expiring I lie, to live or to die,
Thus doubtful the Sentence of such I rely:
Your Tongue bids me go, tho' your Eyes say not so,
But much kinder Words from their Language do flow.
Then leave me not here, thus between Hope and Fear,
Tho' your Love cannot come, let your pity appear;
But this my request, you must grant me at least,
And more I'll not ask, but to you leave the rest;
If my fate I must meet, let it be at your Feet,
Death there with more joy, than else-where I wou'd greet.