I F when Don Cupid's dart Doth wound a heart, We hide our grief And shun relief, The smart increaseth on that score; For wounds unsearcht but rankle more. 2 Then if we whine, look pale, And tell our tale, Men are in pain For us again; So, neither speaking doth become The lover's state, nor being dumb. 3 When this I do descry, Then thus think I: Love is the fart Of every heart; It pains a man when 'tis kept close, And others doth offend when 'tis let loose. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OCTAVES: 16 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON ETHELSTAN: RUNILDA'S CHANT by GEORGE DARLEY THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: MARCH by EDMUND SPENSER THE SISTERS by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS THE POOR FARMER'S OFFERING by APOLLONIDES TO HIS WORSHIPFULL WEL-WILLER, MAISTER EDWARD LEIGH by RICHARD BARNFIELD |