by Thomas Lodge
Love guards the roses of thy lips
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach, he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shine;
And if I look the boy will lower,
And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
Love works thy heart within his fire,
And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,
And of my plaints doth make a game.
Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,
And pity me, and calm her eye,
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,
Then I will praise thy deity.
But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her
In spite of these, and by firm faith deserve her.