Classic Poem

Cupid, at length I spy thy crafty wile,
Though for a time thou didst me sore beguile.
When first thy shaft did wound my tender heart,
It touched me light; methought I felt some pain;
Some little prick at first did make me smart,
But yet that grief was quickly gone again.
Full small account I made of such a sore,
As now doth rankle inward more and more.

So poison first the sinews lightly strains,
Then strays, and after spreads through all the veins;
No otherwise, than he, that pricked with thorn,
Starts at the first, and feels no other grief;
As one whose heart so little hurt did scorn,
And deigned not to seek despised relief;
At last when rest doth after travel come,
That little prick the joint with pain doth numb.

What may I think the cause of this thy craft,
That at the first thou stick'st not deep thy shaft?
If at the first I had thy stroke espied,
(Alas, I thought thou would'st not dally so!)
To keep myself always I would have tried;
At least I think I might have cured my woe;
Yet, truth to say, I did suspect no less;
And knew it too; at least, I so did guess.

I saw, and yet would willingly be blind:
I felt the sting, yet flattered still my mind;
And now, too late, I know my former guilt,
And seek in vain to heal my cureless sore:
My life I doubt, my health I know is spilt,
A just reward for dallying so before:
For I that would not, when I might have ease,
No marvel though I cannot when I please.