1 One arrow poised, on ash wood bent,
2 Did cupid drow and onward send,
3 And hit me as arrows argued meant,
4 To wound me that which love attends.
5 But alas no love attends my wound,
6 Nor hope recourse the dire gloom:
7 That none but death in deadly stature rent
8 A heal to wounds in despair spent.
9 This naturally sorrow nothing give
10 But able choice to die, to live:
11 To live is death, and death to breathe,
12 So love unloved doth give me leave.