|
| The broken heart. |
|
| He is starke mad, who ever sayes, |
| That he hath beene in love an houre, |
| Yet not that love so soone decayes, |
| But that it can tenne in lesse space devour; |
| Who will beleeve mee, if I sweare |
| That I have had the plague a yeare? |
| Who would not laugh at mee, if I should say, |
| I saw a flaske of powder burne a day? |
|
| Ah, what a trifle is a heart, |
| If once into loves hands it come? |
| All other griefes allow a part |
| To other griefes, and aske themselves but some, |
| They come to us, but us Love draws, |
| Hee swallows us, and never chawes: |
| By him, as by chain'd shot, whole rankes doe dye, |
| He is the tyran Pike, our hearts the Frye. |
|
| If 'twere not so, what did become |
| Of my heart, when I first saw thee? |
| I brought a heart into the roome, |
| But from the roome, I carried none with mee; |
| If it had gone to thee, I know |
| Mine would have taught thine heart to show |
| More pitty unto mee: but Love, alas |
| At one first blow did shiver it as glasse.
|
[CW: Yet] |