Love's Distresses

Who will hear me? Whom shall I lament to?

Who would pity me that heard my sorrows?

Ah, the lip that erst so many raptures

Used to taste, and used to give responsive,

Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;

And it is not thus severely wounded

By my mistress having caught me fiercely,

And then gently bitten me, intending

To secure her friend more firmly to her:

No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, only

By the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding,

Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.

Now the noble grape's bright juice commingled

With the bee's sweet juice, upon the fire

Of my hearth, shall ease me of my torment.

Ah, what use will all this be, if with it

Love adds not a drop of his own balsam?