Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of them that lie and sleep!
For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.
God Cupid's shaft, like Destiny,
Doth either good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his feet doth go.
What fools are they, that have not known
That Love likes no laws, but his own!
My songs, they be Cynthia's praise:
I wear her rings on holidays.
On 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'll 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; which is the bow of Love:
And love as well the For'ster can,
As can the mighty Nobleman.
Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be!
Yet, without love, nought worth to me!
