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XI
Tell me, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mind
To be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair?
Did nature frame thy beauty so unkind?
Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair?
O no, it was not nature's ornament,
But wingèd love's unpartial cruel wound,
Which in my heart is ever permanent,
Until my Chloris make me whole and sound.
O glorious love-god, think on my heart's grief;
Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain;
By wounding Chloris I shall find relief,
If thou impart to her some of my pain.
She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject;
They with Amintas' flowers by me are decked.
