Rhoecus

I am the Dryad of this tree And with it I am doomed to live and die. The rain and sunshine are my caterers, Nor have I other bliss than simple life, Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give And with a thankful joy, it shall be thine. . . . Oh, Rhoecus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, 'Tis thou art blind, Not I unmerciful, I can forgive, But have no skill to heal the spirit eyes.