C E L I A B L E E D I N G.|
TO THE SURGEON.
FOND man, that canst believe her blood
Will from those purple channels flow ;
Or that the pure untainted flood
Can any foul distemper know ;
Or that thy weak steel can incise
The crystal case wherein it lies :
Know, her quick blood, proud of his seat,
Runs dancing through her azure veins ;
Whose harmony no cold nor heat
Disturbs, whose hue no tincture stains :
And the hard rock, wherein it dwells,
The keenest darts of love repels.
But thou repli'st "Behold, she bleeds !"
Fool ! thou'rt deceiv'd, and dost not know
The mystic knot whence this proceeds,
How lovers in each other grow :
Thou struck'st her arm, but 'twas my heart
Shed all the blood, felt all the smart.
Vincent, Arthur, ed. The Poems of Thomas Carew.
London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., nd. 34.
|| to Works of Thomas Carew|
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Created by Anniina Jokinen on March 23, 1997. Last updated on March 25, 2001.