THE BROKEN HEART.

He is stark mad, whoever says,

That he hath been in love an hour,

Yet not that love so soon decays,

But that it can ten in less space devour ;

Who will believe me, if I swear

That I have had the plague a year?

Who would not laugh at me, if I should say

I saw a flash of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,

If once into loves hands it come !

All other griefs allow a part

To other griefs, and ask themselves but some ;

They come to us, but us love draws ;

He swallows us and never chaws ;

By him, as by chaind shot, whole ranks do die ;

He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

If twere not so, what did become

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