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!