Away with these selfe loving lads
Whom Cupids arrowe never glads:
Away poore soules that sigh & weepe
In love that lei & sleepe
For Cupid is a medoce god
& forceth none to kisse the rod

God Cupids shaft like destinie
Doth either good or ill decree:
Desert is borne out of his bow
Reward upon his feet doth go
What fooles are they that have not knowne
That love likes no lawes but his owne?

My songs they be of Cynthias praise
I weare her rings on hollidaies
On every tree I write her name
And every day I reade the same:
Where honor, Cupids rivall is
There miracles are seene of his

If Cinthia crave her ring of me
I blot blot her name out of the tree
If doubt do darken things held deere:
Then well fare nothing once a yeere:
For many run, but one must win
Fooles only hedge the Cuckoo in
The worth that worthinesse should move
Is love, which is the bowe of love
And love as well the foster can
As can the mighty Noble-man:
Sweet Saint, tis true you worthie be
Yet without love nought worth to me