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NO more, blind god ! for see, my heart Is made thy quiver, where remains No void place for another dart ; And, alas ! that conquest gains Small praise, that only brings away A tame and unresisting prey. Behold a nobler foe, all arm'd, Defies thy weak artillery, That hath thy bow and quiver charm'd, A rebel beauty, conquering thee : If thou dar'st equal combat try, Wound her, for 'tis for her I die. |
Source:
Vincent, Arthur, ed. The Poems of Thomas Carew.
London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., nd. 57.
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