by Robert Herrick

I HELD Love's head while it did ache ;
    But so it chanc'd to be,
The cruel pain did his forsake,
    And forthwith came to me.

Ah, me ! how shall my grief be still'd ?
    Or where else shall we find
One like to me, who must be kill'd
    For being too-too kind ?

Herrick, Robert. Works of Robert Herrick. vol I.
Alfred Pollard, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 236.

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