Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupids arrow never glads,
Away, poor souls that sigh and weep
In love of those that lie and sleep,
For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.
God Cupids shaft, like destiny,
Doth either good or ill decree,
Desert is born out of his bow,
Reward upon his foot doth go
What fools are they that have not known
That love like no laws but his own!
My songs that be of Cynthia's praise
I wear her rings on holidays,
On every tree I write her name,
And ev'ry day I read the same,
Where honour Cupid's rival is
There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of a tree,
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well fare nothing once a year!
For many run but one must win,
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.
The worth that worthiness move is love,
Which is the bow of love,
And love as well the foster can
As can the mighty noble man,
Sweet saint, 'tis true you worhty be,
Yet without love naught worth to me.
