But gentle words are all in vain,
Such gales my flame but higher blow.
Ah, Chloe, would you cure the smart
Your conqu’ring eyes have keenly made,
Yourself upon my bleeding heart—
Yourself, fair Chloe, must be laid.
Thus for the viper’s sting we know,
No surer remedy is found,
Than to apply the tort’ring foe,
And squeeze his venom on the wound.