Sonnet XIX. The Hound, by eating grass, doth find relief

William Smith (fl. 1596)

THE HOUND, by eating grass, doth find relief:

For, being sick, it is his choicest meat.

The wounded Hart doth ease his pain and grief;

If he, the herb Dictamion may eat.

The loathsome Snake renews his sight again,

When he casts off his withered coat and hue.

The sky-bred Eagle fresh age doth obtain

When he, his beak decayèd doth renew.

I worse than these, whose sore no salve can cure;

Whose grief, no herb, nor plant, nor tree can ease:

Remediless, I still must pain endure

Till I, my CHLORIS’s furious mood can please.

She, like the scorpion, gave to me a wound;

And, like the scorpion, she must make me sound.