I will confess
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That let her lay
On me all day
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not, I
Now blubb'ring, cry,
It (ah!) too late repents me,
That I did fall
To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.
No, no, I'll be
In fetters free:
While others they sit wringing
Their hands for pain,
I'll entertain
The wounds of love with singing.
--_Robert Herrick_