Which, like young sorcerers, rais'd a pain
Above its power to lay.
Love moves not, as thou turn'st thy look,
But here doth firmly rest;
He long ago thy eyes forsook,
To revel in my breast.
Thy power on him why hop'st thou more
10Than his on me should be?
The claim thou lay'st to him is poor,
To that he owns from me.