O Love, where are thy shafts, thy quiver, and thy bow?

O Love, where are thy shafts, thy quiver, and thy bow?
Shall my wounds only weep, and he ungaged go?
Be just, and strike him, too, that dares contemn thee so!

No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blind;
So fair they level when the mark they list to find:
Then, strike, O strike the heart that bears the cruel mind!

Is my fond sight deceived? or do I Cupid spy,
Close aiming at his breast by whom, despised, I die?
Shoot home, sweet Love, and wound him, that he may not fly!

O then we both will sit in some unhaunted shade,
And heal each other's wound which Love hath justly made:
O hope, O thought too vain! how quickly dost thou fade!

At large he wanders still: his heart is free from pain;
While secret sighs I spend, and tears, but all in vain.
Yet, Love, thou knowest, by right, I should not thus complain.