Love has had his way with me.
  This my heart is torn and maimed
Since he took his play with me.
  Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,

Shot, and saw the feathered shaft
  Dripping bright and bitter red.
He that shrugged his wings and laughed--
  Better had he left me dead.

Sweet, why do you plead me, then,
  Who have bled so sore of that?
Could I bear it once again? . . .
  Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat!