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UNDER FIRE, by                    
First Line: Now has love wrought a fever in my veins
Last Line: With his own weapons, will I love ensnare.


Now has love wrought a fever in my veins
And when I would be here, I would be there,
And would I rest, no rest for me remains.
This gown, or that, I know not what to wear.
What, must I to love's tyranny confess?
A pother on it all! I will not thus
That love, who was my erstwhile friend, no less,
Should me besiege with senses amorous.

For this offense, I will inflict, I swear,
Such wounds as he cannot in truth deny!
I'll feign indifference, or he forbear,
And weave the while a potent spell thereby
Shall him disarm; then taken unaware,
With his own weapons, will I love ensnare.





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