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XIX
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 decayed 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' furious mood can please;
She like the scorpion gave to me a wound,
And like the scorpion she must make me sound.
