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I.
Ah me!
the little tyrant theefe!
As once my heart was
playing,
He snatcht it up and flew away,
Laughing
at all my praying.
II.
Proud of his purchase,
he surveys
And curiously sounds it,
And though he
sees it full of wounds,
Cruel one, still he wounds
it.
III.
And now this heart is all his sport,
Which as a ball he boundeth
From hand to breast, from
breast to lip,
And all its rest confoundeth.
IV.
Then as a top he sets it up,
And pitifully
whips it;
Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine,
Then straight againe he strips it.
V.
He
cover'd it with false reliefe,
Which gloriously
show'd it;
And for a morning-cushionet
On's mother
he bestow'd it.
VI.
Each day, with her small
brazen stings,
A thousand times she rac'd it;
But
then at night, bright with her gemmes,
Once neere her
breast she plac'd it.
VII.
There warme it gan
to throb and bleed;
She knew that smart, and grieved;
At length this poore condemned heart
With these rich
drugges repreeved.
VIII.
She washt the wound
with a fresh teare,
Which my LUCASTA dropped,
And
in the sleave-silke of her haire
'Twas hard bound up
and wrapped.
IX.
She proab'd it with her
constancie,
And found no rancor nigh it;
Only the
anger of her eye
Had wrought some proud flesh by it.
X.
Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine,
Which
from her kisses trilled;
And with the balme heald all
its paine,
That from her hand distilled.
XI.
But yet this heart avoyds me still,
Will not by me be
owned;
But's fled to its physitian's breast;
There
proudly sits inthroned.
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