Sappho's song

O cruel Love, on thee I lay

My curse, which shall strike blind the day ;

Never may sleep with velvet hand

Charm thine eyes with sacred wand ;

Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears ;

Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears ;

Thy play to wear out weary times,

Fantastic passions, vows, and rimes ;

Thy bread be frowns ; thy drink be gall,

Such as when you Phao call ;

The bed thou liest on be despair,

Thy sleep fond dreams, thy dreams long care ;

Hope, like thy fool, at thy bed's head,

Mock thee, till madness strike thee dead,

As, Phao, thou dost me with thy proud eyes ;

In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dies.