Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

LOVE guards the roses of thy lips

And flies about them like a bee;

If I approach he forward skips,

And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his tower,

And sleeps within his pretty shrine;

And if I look the boy will lower,

And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire,

And in my tears doth firm the same;

And if I tempt it will retire,

And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;

And pity me, and calm her eye;

Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers;

Then will I praise thy deity.

But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve her

In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.