Upon Belinda, who, gathering a Rose, prick'd her Finger
When you, bright Nymph, design'd to crop a Rose,
To kiss your sweeter Hand, the Buds arose:
Your heedless Hand a pointed Prickle prest,
Stung with the Wound, you sunk into my Breast.
If so small Wounds can cause so great a Smart,
Think, O Belinda , on my bleeding Heart!
To kiss your sweeter Hand, the Buds arose:
Your heedless Hand a pointed Prickle prest,
Stung with the Wound, you sunk into my Breast.
If so small Wounds can cause so great a Smart,
Think, O Belinda , on my bleeding Heart!
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