Away with these selfe loving lads,
Whom Cupids arrowe never glads:
Away poore soules that sigh & weepe
In love that lei & sleepe,
For Cupid is a medoce god,
& forceth none to kisse the rod.

God Cupids shaft like destinie,
Doth either good or ill decree:
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his feet doth go,
What fooles are they that have not knowne
That love likes no lawes but his owne?

My songs they be of Cynthias praise,
I weare her rings on hollidaies,
On every tree I write her name,
And every day I reade the same:
Where honor, Cupids rivall is,
There miracles are seene of his.

If Cinthia crave her ring of me,
I blot blot her name out of the tree,
If  doubt do darken things held deere:
Then well fare nothing once a yeere:
For many run, but one must win,
Fooles only hedge the Cuckoo in.

The worth that worthinesse should move,
Is love, which is the bowe of love,
And love as well the foster can,
As can the mighty Noble-man:
Sweet Saint, tis true you worthie be,
Yet without love nought worth to me.