Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, will ye? Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence; I'll shut my eyes to keep you in; I'll make you fast it for your sin; I'll count your power not worth a pin; --Alas! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid! so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee! _T. Lodge_ LXXII _CUPID AND CAMPASPE_ Cupid and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin; All these did my Campaspe win: And last he set her both his eyes-- She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me? _J. Lylye_ LXXIII Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow! _T. Heywood_ LXXIV _PROTHALAMION_