Song
Richard Brome
No love, nor Fate dare I accuse
For that my Love did me refuse;
But oh my own unworthiness,
That durst presume so mickle bliss.
It was too much for me to love
A man so like the gods above;
An Angel's shape, A Saint-like voice,
Are too divine for human choice.
Oh had I wishly giv'n my heart,
For to have loved him but in part
Sought only to enjoy his face,
Or any one peculiar grace
Of foot, or hand, or lip, of eye,
I might have lived where now I die.
But I presuming all to choose,
And now condemnéd all to lose.
