1 O Loue where are thy Shafts, thy Quiuer and thy Bow ?
Shall my wounds onely weepe and hee vngaged goe ?
Be iust and strike him to, that dares contemne thee so.
2 No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blinde,
So fayre they leuell when the marke they lift to finde :
Then strike, ô strike the heart that beares the cruell minde.
3 Is my fond sight deceiued ? or doe I Cupid spye
Close ayming at his breast, by whom despis'd I dye ?
Shoot home sweet Loue, and wound him that hee may not flye.
4 O then we both will sit in some vnhaunted shade,
And heale each others wound which Loue hath iustly made :
O hope, ô thought too vaine, how quickly dost thou fade ?
5 At large he wanders still, hie heart is free from paine,
While secret sighes I spend, and teares, but all in vaine :
Yet Loue thou know'st by right I should not thus complaine.
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www.harald-lillmeyer.kulturserver.de