The poem
I could but see thee yesterday Stung by a fretful bee; And I the javelin suck'd away, And heal'd the wound in thee.
A thousand thorns, and briars, and stings I have in my poor breast; Yet ne'er can see that salve which brings My passions any rest.
As Love shall help me, I admire How thou canst sit and smile To see me bleed, and not desire To staunch the blood the while.
If thou, composed of gentle mould, Art so unkind to me; What dismal stories will be told Of those that cruel be!