by Robert Herrick
AH, cruel love ! must I endure
Thy many scorns and find no cure ?
Say, are thy medicines made to be
Helps to all others but to me ?
I'll leave thee and to pansies come,
Comforts you'll afford me some ;
You can ease my heart and do
What love could ne'er be brought unto.
Herrick, Robert. Works of Robert Herrick. vol I.
Alfred Pollard, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 90.