As LOVE had drawn his bow, ready to shoot, Aiming at me, with resolute intent; Straight, bow and shaft he cast down at his foot, And said, "Why, needless, should one shaft be spent? I'll spare it then, and now it shall suffice Instead of shafts, to use ALCILIA's eyes." XVI. Blush not, my Love! for fear lest PHOEBUS spy! Which if he do, then, doubtless, he will say, "Thou seek'st to dim his clearness with thine eye!" That clearness, which, from East, brings gladsome day: But most of all, lest JOVE should see, I dread; And take thee up to heaven like GANYMEDE. XVII. PHILOPARTHEN. "What is the cause ALCILIA is displeased?" LOVE. "Because she wants that which should most content her." PHILOPARTHEN. "O did I know it, soon should she be eased!" LOVE. "Perhaps, thou dost! and that doth most torment her." PHILOPARTHEN. "Yet, let her ask! what she desires to have." LOVE. "Guess, by thyself! For maidens must not crave!" XVIII. My Love, by chance, her tender finger pricked; As, in the dark, I strivèd for a kiss: Whose blood, I seeing, offered to have licked, But half in anger, she refusèd this. O that she knew the difference of the smart 'Twixt her pricked finger, and my piercèd heart! XIX. PHILOPARTHEN. "I pray thee, tell! What makes my heart to tremble, When, on a sudden, I, ALCILIA spy?" LOVE. "Because thy heart cannot thy joy dissemble! Thy life and death are both lodged in her eye." PHILOPARTHEN. "Dost thou not her, with self-same passion strike?" LOVE. "O, no! Her heart and thine are not alike." XX. Such are thy parts of body and of mind; That if I should not love thee as I do, I should too much degenerate from Kind, And think the world would blame my weakness too. For he, whom such perfections cannot move, Is either senseless, or not born to love. XXI. ALCILIA's eyes have set my heart on fire, The pleasing object that my pain doth feed: Yet still to see those eyes I do desire, As if my help should from my hurt proceed. Happy were I, might there in her be found A will to heal, as there was power to wound. XXII. Unwise was he, that painted LOVE a boy; Who, for his strength, a giant should have been. It's strange a child should work so great annoy; Yet howsoever strange, too truly seen. "But what is he? that dares at LOVE repine; Whose works are wonders, and himself divine!" XXIII.