I co'd but see thee yesterday Stung by a fretfull Bee; And I the Javelin suckt away, And heal'd the wound in thee. A thousand thorns, and Bryars & Stings, I have in my poore Brest; Yet ne'r can see that salve which brings My Passions any rest. As Love shall helpe me, I admire How thou canst sit and smile, To see me bleed, and not desire To stench the blood the while. If thou compos'd of gentle mould Art so unkind to me; What dismall Stories will be told Of those that cruell be? |