Wonder not, if I stay not here:
Hurt lovers, like to wounded deer,
Must shift the place; for standing still
Leaves too much time to know our ill:
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That lets in from th' enemy
All that may supplant an heart,
'Tis time the chief should use some art.
Who parts the object from the sense,
Wisely cuts off intelligence.10
O, how quickly men must die,
Should they stand all love's battery!
Persinda's eyes great mischief do:
So do, we know, the cannon too;
But men are safe at distance still:15
Where they reach not, they cannot kill.
Love is a fit, and soon is past;
Ill diet only makes it last:
Who is still looking, gazing ever,
Drinks wine i' th' very height o' th' fever.20