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.