Page:Tixall Poetry.djvu/194

Like a deere that is wounded, I bleeding run on
 And strive still my passion to hide;
But oh! tis in vaine, for wherever I'm gon,
 The bloudy dart sticks in my side.

 

---

---

 

XXVI.

The Broken Hart.

 

---

 

As I walkt forth one summers day,
To view the mead owes greene and gay,
A pleasant bower I espied,
Standing close by a rivers side,
And in't a maiden I heard cry,
Alas! alas! none ere did love like I.

Then round the meadow did she walke,
Catching each flower by the stalke,
Such flowers as in the meadowes grew,
The dead mans thumbe of azure blew;