III.

We have a fish, by strangers much admired, Which caught, to cruel search yields his chief part: With gall cut out, closed up again by art, Yet lives until his life be new required.

A stranger fish myself, not yet expired, Tho’, rapt with Beauty’s hook, I did impart Myself unto th’ anatomy desired, Instead of gall, leaving to her my heart: Yet live with thoughts closed up, ’till that she will, By conquest’s right, instead of searching, kill.