THE Hound, by eating grass, doth find relief:
For, being sick, it is his choicest meat.
The wounded Hart doth ease his pain and grief;
If he, the herb _Dictamion_ may eat.
The loathsome Snake renews his sight again,
When he casts off his withered coat and hue.
The sky-bred Eagle fresh age doth obtain
When he, his beak decayèd doth renew.
I worse than these, whose sore no salve can cure;
Whose grief, no herb, nor plant, nor tree can ease:
Remediless, I still must pain endure
Till I, my CHLORIS's furious mood can please.
She, like the scorpion, gave to me a wound;
And, like the scorpion, she must make me sound.