104. To Dianeme
I could but see thee yesterdayStung by a fretful bee;And I the javelin suck’d away,And heal’d the wound in thee.
A thousand thorns, and briars, and stingsI have in my poor breast;Yet ne’er can see that salve which bringsMy passions any rest.
As Love shall help me, I admireHow thou canst sit and smileTo see me bleed, and not desireTo staunch the blood the while.
If thou, composed of gentle mould,Art so unkind to me;What dismal stories will be toldOf those that cruel be!