Cupid Shoots Light, but Wounds Sore

Cupid, at length I spy thy crafty wile,
Though for a time thou didst me sore beguile.
When first thy shaft did wound my tender heart,
It touched me light; methought I felt some pain;
Some little prick at first did make me smart,
But yet that grief was quickly gone again.

Full small account I made of such a sore,
As now doth rankle inward more and more.
So poison first the sinews lightly strains,
Then strays, and after spreads through all the veins
No otherwise, than he, that pricked with thorn,
Starts at the first, and feels no other grief;

As one whose heart so little hurt did scorn,
And deigned not to seek despised relief;
At last when rest doth after travel come,
That little prick the joint with pain doth numb.
What may I think the cause of this thy craft,
That at the first thou stick'st not deep thy shaft?

If at the first I had thy stroke espied,
(Alas, I thought thou would'st not dally so!)
To keep myself always I would have tried;
At least I think I might have cured my woe;
Yet, truth to say, I did suspect no less;
And knew it too; at least, I so did guess.

I saw, and yet would willingly be blind:
I felt the sting, yet flattered still my mind;
And now, too late, I know my former guilt,
And seek in vain to heal my cureless sore:
My life I doubt, my health I know is spilt,
A just reward for dallying so before:

For I that would not, when I might have ease,
No marvel though I cannot when I please.