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Poem by William Cowper
Written in a Quarrel
Think, Delia, with what cruel haste Our fleeting pleasures move, Nor heedless in sorrow waste The moments due to love; Be wise, my fair, and gently treat These few that are our friends; Think thus abused, what sad regret Their speedy flight attends! Sure in those eyes I loved so well, And wished so long to see, Anger I thought could never dwell, Or anger aimed at me. No bold offence of mine I knew Should e'er provoke your hate; And, early taught to think you true, Still hoped a gentler fate. With kindness bless the present hour, Or oh! we meet in vain! What can we do in absence more Than suffer and complain? Fated to ills beyond redress, We must endure our woe; The days allowed us to possess, 'Tis madness to forego.
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