To Amasia, Singing, and sticking Pins in a Red Silk Pincushion

As the vex'd Tyrant, when for Blood design'd,
Stabs the dull ground, and Murthers in his Mind
So, Fair Amasia, with a Barb'rous skill,
Piercing the Cushion, shews how she would kill.

All this you do, to prove what Pow'r you have,
The Cushion seems to Bleed, such Wounds you gave;
Whilst I, in Emblem, all my tortures see,
Your Pins pierce that, as your Eyes wounded me.

This flaming Mount with AEtna may compare,
Here, Cupid's shafts, there are the Arms of War;
Sure then Love's AEtna must be only here,
That, holds Jove's thunder, this, Amasia's Spear.

See now, with how small force her Launces fall!
Just with such carelesness, she wounds us all.
To kill, not toil to her, the Tyrant Joys,
And Syren like, she Sings, while she destroys.

Orpheus his lyre did Ancient Woods remove,
None e'er, but you, with Musick set a Grove.
Your Silver […] come dancing to your hand,
And, where you place them, there they rooted stand.