Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

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, still 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 mine 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!