1
Away with these selfe louing lads,
Whom Cupids arrow neuer glads.
Away poore soules that sigh and weep,
In loue of them that lie and sleepe.
For Cupid is a medow God,
And forceth none to kisse the rod.
2
God Cupids shaft, like destinie,
Doth eyther good or ill decree :
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward vpon his foot doth goe.
What fools are they that haue not known
That loue likes no lawes but his owne ?
3
My songs they be of Cynthias praise,
I weare her rings on holy dayes,
On euery tree I write her name,
And euery day I reade the same :
Where honor, Cupids riuall is,
There miracles are seene of his.
4
If Cynthia craue her ring of mee,
I blot her name out of the tree.
If doubt do darken things held deare,
Then welfare nothing once a yeare :
For many run, but one must win,
Fools onely hedge the Cuckoe in.
5
The worth that worthinesse should moue
Is loue, which is the bowe of loue;
And loue as well the Foster can,
As can the mighty Nobleman :
Sweet Saint, tis true you worthy be,
Yet without loue nought worth to me.
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