Sappho's Song

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 rimes ;
 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.