What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod?été He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in my eyes I like of thee: O, Cupid so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee. _Thomas Lodge._
I KNOW when milk does flies contain; I know men by their bravery; I know fair days from storm and rain; And what fruit apple-trees supply; And from their gums the trees descry; I know when all things smoothly flow; I know who toil or idle lie; All things except myself I know.
I know the doublet by the grain; The monk beneath the hood can spy; Master from man can ascertain; I know the nun’s veiled modesty; I know when sportsmen fables ply; Know fools who scream and dainties stow; Wine from the butt I certify; All things except myself I know.
Know horse from mule by tail and mane; I know their worth or high or low; Bell, Beatrice, I know the twain; I know each chance of cards and die; I know what visions prophesy, Bohemian heresies, I trow; I know men of each quality; All things except myself I know.
Prince, I know all things ’neath the sky, Pale cheeks from those of rosy glow; I know death whence can no man fly; All things except myself I know. _François Villon._
CUPID and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother’s doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin:— All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas, become of me! _John Lilly._
MY true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. _Sir Philip Sidney._
O MISTRESS mine! where are you roaming? O! stay and hear; your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know.