But whate’er thou wishest, it does evermore.
O tongue: Thou’rt a treasure, beyond all earth’s price!
And yet thou’rt a plague, that’s not always too nice!
A whistle art thou, birds decoying afield.
A solace to love’s wayward, fitful, spoilt child.
To men thou’rt all darkness, and blasphemy’s bale;
To saints, guide, companion too, through this dark vale.160
Thou’rt pitiless! Pity on me take, awhile.
Thy bow thou hast strung, on poor me to work guile.
Thou hast taken my bird; thou hast flustered my soul.