Discharge thy dole,
Thou subtle soul,
It stands in little stead
To curse the kiss
That causer is
Thy cherry lip doth bleed.
Thy blood ascends
To make amends
For damage thou hast done:
For by the same
I felt a flame
More scorching than the sun.
Thou reft’st my heart
By secret art,
My sprites were quite subdued:
My senses fled
And I was dead,
Thy lips were scarce imbrued.
The kiss was thine,
The hurt was mine,
My heart felt all the pain:
‘Twas it that bled
And looked so red,
I tell thee once again.
But if you long
To wreak your wrong
Upon your friendly foe;
Come kiss again
And put to pain
The man that hurt you so.
(George Turberville)
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