Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Thomas Lodge. 1556?162597. Rosalind’s Madrigal
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, | 5 |
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, the percheth he | 10 |
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; | 15 |
He lends me every lovely thing, | |
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: | |
Whist, wanton, still ye! | |
Else I with roses every day | |
Will whip you hence, | 20 |
And bind you, when you long to play, | |
For your offence. | |
I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in; | |
I’ll make you fast it for your sin; | |
I’ll count your power not worth a pin. | 25 |
—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, | 30 |
Because a god. | |
Then sit thou safely on my knee; | |
Then let thy bower my bosom be; | |
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee; | |
O Cupid, so thou pity me, | 35 |
Spare not, but play thee! |