LOVE FOR LOVE
Away with these self-loving lads
Whom Cupid’s arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of those that lie asleep!
For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.
Sweet Cupid’s shafts, like destiny,
Do causeless good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his wing doth go!
What fools are they that have not known
That Love likes no laws but his own.
My songs they be of Cynthia’s praise,
I wear her rings on holy-days,
In every tree I write her name,
And every 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 the 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 should move,
Is Love, that is the bow of Love;
And love as well the foster can,
As can the mighty noble-man:—
Sweet saint, ’tis true, you worthy be,
Yet, without love, nought worth to me.
Fulke Greville.