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.