Toil and grow rich,
What's that but to lie
With a foul witch
And after, drained dry,
To be brought
To the chamber where
Lies one long sought
With despair?
by Patience Worth
Heart of mine, bruised as a bird
In a wicker, beating that it free!
Heart of mine! Heart of mine!
I would soothe thee. I would sing such lays,
That thy throat would ache to sing!