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.