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 will I praise thy deity,
But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
Thomas Lodge.