My Fate. Poem by Ephelia

My Fate.

Oh cruel Fate, when wilt thou weary be?
When satisfied with tormenting me?
What have I e'er designed, but thou hast crossed?
All that I wished to gain by Thee, I've lost:
From my first Infancy, thy Spite thou'st shown,
And from my Cradle, I've thy Malice known;
Thou snatch'st my Parents in their tender Age,
Made me a Victim to the furious Rage
Of cruel Fortune, as severe as thee;
Yet I resolved to brave my Destiny,
And did, with more than Female Constancy.
Not all thy Malice could extort a Tear,
Nor all thy Rage could ever teach me Fear:
Still as thy Power diminished my Estate,
My Fortitude did my Desires abate;
In every state I thought my Mind content,
And wisely did thy cross Designs prevent:
Seeing thy Plots did unsuccessful prove,
As a sure Torment next, thou taught'st me Love:
But here thou wert deceived too, for my Swain
As soon as he perceived, pitied my Pain:
He met my Passion with an equal Fire,
Both sweetly languished in a soft Desire:
Clasped in each other's Arms we sat all Day,
Each Smile I gave, he'd with a Kiss repay:
In every Hour an Age's Bliss we reaped,
And lavish Favors on each other heaped.
Now sure (thought I) Destiny doth relent,
And her insatiate Tyranny repent:
But how mistaken! how deceived was I!
Alas! She only raised my Hopes thus high,
To cast me down with greater Violence;
For midst our Joys, she snatched my Shepherd hence
: yet tho I was neglected,
I bore it better than could be expected:
Without Regret, I let him cross the Sea,
When I was told it for his Good would be;
But when I heard the Nuptial Knot he'd tied,
And made an
Nymph his happy Bride:
My Temper then I could no longer hold,
I cursed my Fate, I cursed the Pow'r of Gold;
I cursed the Easiness believed at first,
And (Heaven forgive me) Him I almost cursed.
Hearing my Loss, to him was mighty Gain;
I checked my Rage, and soon grew Calm again:
Malicious Fate, seeing this would not do,
wretched, to make me so too.
Of all her Plagues, this was the weightiest Stroke,
This Blow, my resolved Heart hath almost broke:
Yet, 'spite of Fate, this Comfort I've in store,
She's no room left for any ill thing more.

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