Sonnet XXI. Licia, my Love, was sitting in a grove

Giles Fletcher (1586?–1623)

LICIA, my Love, was sitting in a grove;

Tuning her smiles unto the chirping songs:

But straight she spied where two together strove,

Each one complaining of the other’s wrongs.

CUPID did cry, lamenting of the harm,

“JOVE’s Messenger, thou wrong’st me too too far!

Use thou thy rod! rely upon thy charm!

Think not by speech, my force thou can’st debar!”

“A rod, sir boy, were fitter for a child!

My weapons oft, and tongue, and mind you took:

And in my wrong, at my distress thou smiled;

And scorn to grace me with a loving look.”

Speak you, Sweet Love, for you did all the wrong!

That broke his arrows, and did bind his tongue.