Thomas Lodge

Rosalind's Madrigal

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, the percheth he
            With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
            The livelong night.
Strike I my 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 bind you, when you long to play,
            For your offence.
I'll shut mine 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;
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
            Spare not, but play thee!