John Lyly (1555?–1606)

O CRUEL Love, on thee I lay

My curse, which shall strike blind the day;

Never may sleep with velvet hand

Charm thine eyes with sacred wand;

Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears,

Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears,

Thy play to wear out weary times,

Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes;

Thy bread be frowns, thy drink be gall,

Such as when you Phao call;

The bed thou liest on be despair,

Thy sleep fond dreams, thy dreams long care.

Hope, like thy fool at thy bed’s head,

Mock thee till madness strike thee dead,

As, Phao, thou dost me with thy proud eyes;

In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies.