by Robert Herrick
Love, like a beggar, came to me
With hose and doublet torn,
His shirt bedangled from his knee,
With hat and shoes outworn.
He ask'd an alms; I gave him bread,
And meat too, for his need;
Of which, when he had fully fed,
He wished me all good speed.
Away he went; but as he turn'd,
In faith I know not how,
He toucht me so, as that I burn,
And am tormented now.
Love's silent flames, and fires obscure,
The crept into my heart;
And though I saw no bow, I'm sure
His finger was the dart.