John Fletcher (1579–1625)

LET those complain that feel Love’s cruelty,

And in sad legends write their woes;

With roses gently ’has corrected me,

My war is without rage or blows:

My mistress’ eyes shine fair on my desires,

And hope springs up inflamed with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms, and sighs all day,

Reckoning the torments of my hell,

And flinging my sweet joys away:

I am called home again to quiet peace;

My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

Yet, what is living in her eye,

Or being bless’d with her sweet tongue,

If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong:

To be your own but one poor month, I’d give

My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.