In Vain, Alas! Poor Strephon Tries To Ease His Tortured Breast, Since Amoret The Cure Denies, And Makes His Pain A Jest. Ah! Fair One, Why To Me So Coy, And Why To Him So True? Who With More Coldness Slights The Joy Than I With Love Pursue. Die, Then, Unhappy Lover, Die; For Since She Gives Thee Death, The World Has Nothing That Can Buy A Minute More Of Breath. Yet Though I Could Your Scorn Outlive, 'Twere Folly, Since To Me Not Love Itself A Joy Can Give, But, Amoret, In Thee.