Love’s god is a boy,
Fond love is a child
And his compass is narrow,
Young fools are beguiled
With the fame of his arrow;
He dareth not strike
If his stroke do mislike:
Cupid, do you hear me?
Come not too near me.
Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you,
For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you.
Th’ ape loves to meddle
When he finds a man idle,
Else is he a-flirting
Where his mark is a-courting;
When women grow true
Come teach me to sue,
Then I’ll come to thee
Pray thee and woo thee.
Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger,
For if you hit me, knave, I’ll call thee, beggar.
From Robert Jones’ Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly
But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,
Enamoured sought to woo the sun’s fair light,
Whose rich brightness
Moved their lightness
To aspire so high
That all scorched and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.
And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,
For Love did know that their desires were true;
Though Fate frownèd,
And now drownèd
They in sorrow dwell,
It was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell.
From Thomas Campion’s Third Book of Airs (circ. 1613).
“
Maids are simple,” some men say,