Love's god is a boy,
  None but cowherds regard him,
  His dart is a toy,
  Great opinion hath marred him:
  The fear of the wag
  Hath made him so brag;
  Chide him, he’ll flie thee
  And not come nigh thee.
Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random,
For if you hit me, slave, I’ll tell your grandam.

  Fond love is a child
  And his compass is narrow,
  Young fools are beguiled
  With the fame of his arrow;
  He dareth not strike
  If his stroke do mislike:
  Cupid, do you hear me?
  Come not too near me.
Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you,
For if you hit me, knave, in faith I’ll breech you.

  Th’ ape loves to meddle
  When he finds a man idle,
  Else is he a-flirting
  Where his mark is a-courting;
  When women grow true
  Come teach me to sue,
  Then I’ll come to thee
  Pray thee and woo thee.
Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger,
For if you hit me, knave, I’ll call thee, beggar.