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;