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HIS SORROW FOR THE ILLNESS OF LAURA INCREASES, NOT LESSENS, HIS FLAME.
The sovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no avail / Concealment, or resistance is, or flight, / My mind had kindled to a new delight / By his own amorous and ardent ail: / Though his first blow, transfixing my best mail / Were mortal sure, to push his triumph quite / He took a shaft of sorrow in his right, / So my soft heart on both sides to assail.
A burning wound the one shed fire and flame, / The other tears, which ever grief distils, / Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills.
But no relief from either fountain came / My bosom's conflagration to abate, / Nay, passion grew by very pity great.
MACGREGOR.