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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498930" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Loose Saraband</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>Ah me! the little tyrant theefe!<br> As once my heart was playing,<br>He snatcht it up and flew away,<br> Laughing at all my praying.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  II.<br>Proud of his purchase, he surveys<br> And curiously sounds it,<br>And though he sees it full of wounds,<br> Cruel one, still he wounds it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  III.<br>And now this heart is all his sport,<br> Which as a ball he boundeth<br>From hand to breast, from breast to lip,<br> And all its rest confoundeth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  IV.<br>Then as a top he sets it up,<br> And pitifully whips it;<br>Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine,<br> Then straight againe he strips it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  V.<br>He cover'd it with false reliefe,<br> Which gloriously show'd it;<br>And for a morning-cushionet<br> On's mother he bestow'd it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  VI.<br>Each day, with her small brazen stings,<br> A thousand times she rac'd it;<br>But then at night, bright with her gemmes,<br> Once neere her breast she plac'd it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  VII.<br>There warme it gan to throb and bleed;<br> She knew that smart, and grieved;<br>At length this poore condemned heart<br> With these rich drugges repreeved.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  VIII.<br>She washt the wound with a fresh teare,<br> Which my LUCASTA dropped,<br>And in the sleave-silke of her haire<br> 'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  IX.<br>She proab'd it with her constancie,<br> And found no rancor nigh it;<br>Only the anger of her eye<br> Had wrought some proud flesh by it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  X.<br>Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine,<br> Which from her kisses trilled;<br>And with the balme heald all its paine,<br> That from her hand distilled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  XI.<br>But yet this heart avoyds me still,<br> Will not by me be owned;<br>But's fled to its physitian's breast;<br> There proudly sits inthroned.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Lovelace">Richard Lovelace</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498930" data-title="A Loose Saraband de Richard Lovelace" data-description="I.
Ah me! the little tyrant theefe!
 As once my heart was playing,
He snatcht it up and flew away,
 Laughing at all my praying.

  II.
Proud of his purchase, he surveys
 And curiously sounds it,
And though he sees it full of wounds,
 Cruel one, st..."></div>
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