Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | ||
To his Mistris.
I could but see thee yesterday
Sung by a fretful Bee,
And I the Jave in snatcht away,
And heal'd the wound in thee.
Sung by a fretful Bee,
And I the Jave in snatcht away,
And heal'd the wound in thee.
A thousand thorns, and briars, and stings
I have in my poor brest,
Yet ne're can see that salve which brings
My passions any rest
I have in my poor brest,
Yet ne're can see that salve which brings
My passions any rest
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As love shall help me, I admire
How thou canst sit and smile
To see me bleed, and not desire
To stench the blood the while.
How thou canst sit and smile
To see me bleed, and not desire
To stench the blood the while.
If thou compos'd of gentle mould,
Art so unkind to me;
What dismal stories will be told
Of Trose, that cruel Bee.
Art so unkind to me;
What dismal stories will be told
Of Trose, that cruel Bee.
Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | ||