George Peele (1556–1596)

O GENTLE Love, ungentle for thy deed,

Thou mak’st my heart

A bloody mark

With piercing shot to bleed.

Shoot soft, sweet Love, for fear thou shoot amiss;

For fear too keen

Thy arrows been,

And hit the heart where my Belovèd is.

Too fair that fortune were, nor never I

Shall be so blest,

Among the rest,

That Love shall seize on her by sympathy.

Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot,

This doth remain

To cease my pain,

I take the wound and die at Venus’ foot.