I F when Don Cupid's dart Doth wound a heart, We hide our grief And shun relief, The smart increaseth on that score; For wounds unsearcht but rankle more. 2 Then if we whine, look pale, And tell our tale, Men are in pain For us again; So, neither speaking doth become The lover's state, nor being dumb. 3 When this I do descry, Then thus think I: Love is the fart Of every heart; It pains a man when 'tis kept close, And others doth offend when 'tis let loose. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE CROSS OF SNOW by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW MAIDEN MELANCHOLY by RAINER MARIA RILKE ANACTORIA by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE TENT ON THE BEACH: 10. THE PALATINE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID by MATTHEW ARNOLD |