Poetry Archives

Love in my bosom like a bee
      Doth suck his sweet:
Now with his wings he plays with me,
      Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
      Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, the percheth he
      With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
      The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
      Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day
      Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,
      For your offence.
I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I’ll make you fast it for your sin;
I’ll count your power not worth a pin.
—Alas! what hereby shall I win
      If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
      With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
      Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee;
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
      Spare not, but play thee!