Celia Bleeding, To the Surgeon

Fond man, that canst believe her blood

    Will from those purple channels flow;

Or that the pure untainted flood

    Can any foul distemper know;

Or that thy weak steel can incise

The crystal case wherein it lies:

Know, her quick blood, proud of his seat,

    Runs dancing through her azure veins;

Whose harmony no cold nor heat

    Disturbs, whose hue no tincture stains:

And the hard rock wherein it dwells

The keenest darts of love repels.

But thou repli'st, "behold, she bleeds!"

    Fool! thou 'rt deceiv'd, and dost not know

The mystic knot whence this proceeds,

    How lovers in each other grow:

Thou struck'st her arm, but 'twas my heart

Shed all the blood, felt all the smart.