If thou, compos'd of gentle mould,
Art so unkind to me;
What dismal stories will be told
Of those that cruel be?
Admire, wonder.
830. HIS LOSS.
All has been plundered from me but my wit:
Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.
831. DRAW AND DRINK.
Milk still your fountains and your springs: for why?
The more th'are drawn, the less they will grow dry.
833. TO OENONE.
Thou say'st Love's dart
Hath pricked thy heart;
And thou dost languish too:
If one poor prick
Can make thee sick,
Say, what would many do?