Classic Poem

Injurious Pin, how durst thou steal so nigh?
To touch, nay worse, to hurt his precious Eye.
Base Instrument, so ill thou'st play'd thy part,
Wounding his Eye, thou'st wounded my poor Heart:
And for each pity'd Drop his Eye did shed,
My sympathizing Heart a thousand bled:
Too daring Pin, was there no Tincture good,
To bath thy Point, but my Aminta 's Blood?
Cou'd thy Ambition teach thee so to sin?
Was that a Place for thee to revel in.
'Twas there thy Mistress had design'd to be,
And must she find a Rival too in thee?
Curs'd Fate! That I shou'd harbour thee so long,
And thou at last conspire to do me wrong,
Tho well I knew thy Nature to be rude,
And all thy Kin full of Ingratitude,
I little thought thou wouldst presume so far,
To aim thy Malice at so bright a Star.

Now all the Service thou canst render me
Will never recompense this Injury.
Well, get thee gone — for thou shalt never more
Have Power to hurt what I so much adore.
Hence from my Sight, and mayst thou ever lie,
A crooked Object to each scornful Eye.