The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | ||
Upon Belinda, who, gathering a Rose, prick'd her Finger.
When you, bright Nymph, design'd to crop a Rose,To kiss your sweeter Hand, the Buds arose:
Your heedless Hand a pointed Prickle prest,
Stung with the Wound, you sunk into my Breast.
If so small Wounds can cause so great a Smart,
Think, O Belinda, on my bleeding Heart!
The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | ||