The lover, in melodious verses,
His singular distress rehearses;
Still closing with a rueful cry,
'Was ever such a wretch as I!'
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.
Unnumber’d Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem