If when Don Cupids dart
Doth wound a heart,
we hide our grief
and shun relief;
The smart increaseth on that score;
For wounds unsearcht but ranckle more.
Then if we whine, look pale,
And tell our tale,
men are in pain
for us again;
So, neither speaking doth become
The Lovers state, nor being dumb.
When this I do descry,
Then thus think I,
love is the fart
of every heart:
It pains a man when 't is kept close,
And others doth offend, when 't is let loose.