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 merry 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;
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 blot her name out of the tree;
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then "farewell 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 due of love;
And love as well the shepherd can
As can the mighty nobleman:—
Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be;
Yet, without love, nought worth to me.
Fulke-Greville, Lord Brooke.
CUPID AND MY CAMPASPE: APELLES' SONG.
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses: Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows,
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how;
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin—
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes.—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?