A book of women's verse

by Unknown

For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.

Cure then, thou mighty wingèd god,

This restless fever in my blood;

One golden-pointed dart take back:

But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take?

If Damon’s, all my hopes are crost;

Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.

24. Song

A thousand martyrs I have made,