XVIII. If, cruel, thou desirous art of blood

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

IF, cruel, thou desirous art of blood;

Behold how I do bleed in streaming wise!

Glut then thyself therewith, if thou think good;

And do content, with blood, thy bloody eyes!

From breast it comes, where fainting heart doth lie;

And for a gift, I it present to thee!

Although I know, through this, I soon shall die;

And yet to die it little grieveth me:

Since ’tis my wish, my blood with soul as one

May rest; and that’s with thee, or else with none.