|
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink, |
And he, whose thou art, being tyr'd before, |
Will if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think |
Thou call'st for more, |
And in a false sleep even from thee shrink, |
And then poor Aspen wretch, neglected thou |
Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie |
A verier ghost than I; |
What I will say, I will not tell the now, |
Lest that preserve thee: and since my love is spent, |
I'had rather thou should'st painfully repent, |
Than by my threatnings rest still innocent. |
|
The broken heart. |
|
He is stark mad, who ever sayes, |
That he hath been in love an hour, |
Yet not that love so soon decayes, |
But that it can ten in less space devour; |
Who will believe me, if I swear |
That I have had the Plague a year? |
Who would not laugh at me, if I should say, |
I saw a flash of Powder burn a day? |
|
Ah, what a trifle is a heart, |
If once into loves hands it come? |
All other griefs allow a part |
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some, |
They come to us, but us love draws, |
He swallows us and never chaws: |
By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die, |
He is the Tyrant Pike, and we the Frie.
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[CW: If] |