A LOOSE SARABAND (2) by RICHARD LOVELACE

AH me! the little tyrant thief!
As once my heart was playing,
He snatch'd it up and flew away,
Laughing at all my praying.

Proud of his purchase, he surveys
And curiously sounds it,
And though he sees it full of wounds,
Cruel still on he wounds it.

And now this heart is all his sport,
Which as a ball he boundeth
From hand to breast, from breast to lip,
And all its rest confoundeth.

Then as a top he sets it up,
And pitifully whips it;
Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine,
Then straight again he strips it.

He cover'd it with false belief,
Which gloriously show'd it;
And for a morning-cushionet,
On's mother he bestow'd it.

Each day, with her small brazen stings,
A thousand times she rac'd it;
But then at night, bright with her gems,
Once near her breast she plac'd it.

There warm it gan to throb and bleed;
She knew that smart and grieved;
At length this poor condemned heart
With these rich drugs reprieved.

She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear,
Which my Lucasta dropped,
And in the sleave-silk of her hair
'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

She prob'd it with her constancy,
And found no rancour nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye
Had wrought some proud flesh by it.

Then press'd she nard in ev'ry vein,
Which from her kisses trilled;
And with the balm heal'd all its pain,
That from her hand distilled.

But yet this heart avoids me still,
Will not by me be owned;
But's fled to its physician's breast,
There proudly sits enthroned.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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