I'll Burn your bow, bold lad; by Love I swear,
Your quiver, too, with all its Scythian gear.
I will indeed, though now you sneer and cry;
That empty laugh shall soon be turned awry.
I'll break your pinions winged with passion fleet
And fasten brazen fetters on your feet.
And yet methinks a doubtful prize I win
To let a wolf my fenced heart steal within.
Nay, you are victor. Quick your sandals take
And fly away some other heart to break.