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By Ben Jonson


After many scorns like these,
Which the prouder beauties please;
She content was to restore
Eyes and limbs, to hurt me more,
And would, on conditions, be
REconcil'd to love, and me.
First that I must kneeling yield
Both the bow, and shaft I held
Unto her; which Love might take
At her hand, with oath to make
Me the scope of his next draught,
Aimed with that self-same shaft.
He no sooner heard the law,
But the arros home did draw,
And (to gain her by his art)
Ledt it sticking in my heart:
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,
And would fain have chang'd the fate
But the pity comes too late.
Loser-like, now, all my wreak
Is, that I hae leave to speak;
And in either prose or song,
To revenge me with my tongue;
Which how dexterously I do,
Hear and make example too.

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