1 O Loue where are thy Shafts, thy Quiuer and thy Bow ? Shall my wounds onely weepe and hee vngaged goe ? Be iust and strike him to, that dares contemne thee so. 2 No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blinde, So fayre they leuell when the marke they lift to finde : Then strike, ˘ strike the heart that beares the cruell minde. 3 Is my fond sight deceiued ? or doe I Cupid spye Close ayming at his breast, by whom despis'd I dye ? Shoot home sweet Loue, and wound him that hee may not flye. 4 O then we both will sit in some vnhaunted shade, And heale each others wound which Loue hath iustly made : O hope, ˘ thought too vaine, how quickly dost thou fade ? 5 At large he wanders still, hie heart is free from paine, While secret sighes I spend, and teares, but all in vaine : Yet Loue thou know'st by right I should not thus complaine.
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