Celia Beeding, To The Surgeon

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