Classic Poem

Be not so cruel, fairest Boy,
But unstring thy golden bow,
In love we must expect no joy,
Nothing there but sorrows flow;
If thy flaming arrow did
But touch, yet it still appears
We must for ever after bid
Farewell joys, and welcome tears:
Tell us, then tell us where doth grow
The herb that cures the wounded eye,
Else we must cry " Alas and woe,
There's no such herb that grows, " and die.