Do other hearts betroth themselves as mine
To whate'er beauty moves them to romance?
Are they also untempered by decline
Or by the sting of cruel indifference?
If else I am the only man to know
The secret malice 'hind the angel face
Of the unholy cherub and his bow:
He felled my heart alone that hunts by brace.
Now only dreams console; whene'er they cease
I curse the thief that is each waking hour,
But ne'er a fantasy I would not 'lease
To manage Oberon's sweet purple flower,
Or all against what wisdom doth impart
To chance another arrow to the heart.