'A little bee doth thee affright!

But, ah! my wounds are full of sprite,
And cannot be recurèd!

The boy, that kissed his mother's pain,
Gan smile, and kissed her whole again;
And made her hope assured.

She sucked the wound, and 'suaged the sting; And little LOVE, ycured, did sing!

Then let no Lover sorrow!

To-day, though grief attaint his heart;
Let him with courage bide the smart!
Amends will come to-morrow!

My bonny Lass, thine eye,
So sly,

Hath made me sorrow so!

Thy crimson cheeks, my Dear!
So clear,

Have so much wrought my woe!

Thy pleasing smiles and grace,
Thy face,

Have ravished so my sprites,
That life is grown to nought,
Through thought

Of love; which me affrights.

ACCURST be LOVE; and they that trust his trains!
He tastes the fruit: whilst others toil.
He brings the lamp: we lend the oil.
He sows distress: we yield him soil.
He wageth war: we bide the foil.

Accurst be LOVE; and those that trust his trains!
He lays the trap: we seek the snare.
He threat'neth death: we speak him fair.
He coins deceits: we foster care.
He fav'reth pride: we count it rare.

Accurst be LOVE; and those that trust his trains!
He seemeth blind: yet wounds with art.
He vows content: he pays with smart.
He swears relief: yet kills the heart.
He calls for truth: yet scorns desert.

Accurst be LOVE; and those that trust his trains! Whose heaven is hell; whose perfect joys are pains.

LIKE desert woods, with darksome shades obscured, Where dreadful beasts, where hateful horror, reigneth; Such is my wounded heart, whom sorrow paineth.

The trees are fatal shafts, to death inured,
That cruel LOVE within my breast maintaineth,
To whet my grief, when as my sorrow waneth.

The ghastly beasts, my thoughts in cares assured, Which wage me war, whilst heart no succour gaineth, With false suspect, and fear that still remaineth.

The horrors, burning sighs by cares procured,
Which forth I send, whilst weeping eye complaineth,
To cool the heat the helpless heart containeth.

But shafts, but cares, sighs, horrors, unrecured, Were nought esteemed; if, for these pains awarded, My faithful love, by you might be rewarded!

MY PHILLIS hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And PHILLIS hath morn-waking birds,
Her risings for to honour.

My PHILLIS hath prime-feathered flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;
And PHILLIS hath a gallant flock,

That leap, since she doth own them.

But PHILLIS hath so hard a heart
(Alas, that she should have it!)
As yields no mercy to desert,

Nor grace to those that crave it.

Sweet sun! when thou lookest on,
Pray her regard my moan!
Sweet birds! when you sing to her,
To yield some pity, woo her!

Sweet flowers! when as she treads on,
Tell her, her beauty deads one!
And if, in life, her love she nill agree me;
Pray her, before I die, she will come see me!

LOVE guides 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!