Rosalynd’s Complaint

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 the 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 hind you when you long to play, For your offence; I ’ll shut my 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 my eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid! so thou pity me; Spare not, but play thee!