Fond man, that canst believe her blood <br />Will from those purple channels flow; <br />Or that the pure untainted flood <br />Can any foul distemper know; <br />Or that thy weak steel can incise <br />The crystal case wherein it lies: <br /> <br />Know, her quick blood, proud of his seat, <br />Runs dancing through her azure veins; <br />Whose harmony no cold nor heat <br />Disturbs, whose hue no tincture stains: <br />And the hard rock wherein it dwells <br />The keenest darts of love repels. <br /> <br />But thou repli'st, "behold, she bleeds!" <br />Fool! thou 'rt deceiv'd, and dost not know <br />The mystic knot whence this proceeds, <br />How lovers in each other grow: <br />Thou struck'st her arm, but 'twas my heart <br />Shed all the blood, felt all the smart.<br /><br />Thomas Carew<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/celia-beeding-to-the-surgeon/
