XXI. Rankle the wound did in my head apace

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

RANKLE the wound did in my head apace;

When fairest She, to play the Surgeon came:

And whilst her snow-white hand did me the grace

To lay the plaster on, which healed the same,

A wonder strange! No sooner did she touch

The hurt; but it appeared to be none such.

Yet, woe is me, no sooner by that hand

Was healed in head my outward fest’ring wound;

But that instead of that, as countermand,

One mortal scar at inward heart I found.

Thus, LOVE! thou seest is changèd my estate

She checks with Death, that ’fore gave Life for mate.

Venice.