 | Poems |  |
42
Celia bleeding, to the Surgeon.
Fond man, that canst beleeve her blood
Will from those purple chanels flow;
Or that the pure untainted flood,
Can any foule distemper know;
Or that thy weake steele can incize
The Crystall case, wherein it lyes.
Will from those purple chanels flow;
Or that the pure untainted flood,
Can any foule distemper know;
Or that thy weake steele can incize
The Crystall case, wherein it lyes.
Know; her quick blood, proud of his seat,
Runs dauncing through her azure veines;
Whose harmony no cold, nor heat
Disturbs, whose hue no tincture staines;
And the hard rock wherein it dwells,
The keenest darts of Love repels.
Runs dauncing through her azure veines;
Whose harmony no cold, nor heat
Disturbs, whose hue no tincture staines;
And the hard rock wherein it dwells,
The keenest darts of Love repels.
But thou reply'st, behold she bleeds;
Foole, thou'rt deceivd; and dost not know
The mystique knot whence this proceeds,
How Lovers in each other grow;
Thou struckst her arme, but 'twas my heart
Shed all the blood, felt all the smart.
Foole, thou'rt deceivd; and dost not know
The mystique knot whence this proceeds,
How Lovers in each other grow;
Thou struckst her arme, but 'twas my heart
Shed all the blood, felt all the smart.
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