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!