Verse > Anthologies > T. H. Ward, ed. > The English Poets > Vol. I. Chaucer to Donne
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Thomas Humphry Ward, ed.  The English Poets.  1880–1918.
Vol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
 
Rosalynd’s Madrigal
By Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)
 
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,        5
      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, then percheth he        10
                  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;        15
      He lends me every lovely thing,
      Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
                  Whist, wanton, will ye?
 
Else I with roses every day
                  Will whip you hence,        20
And bind you, when you long to play,
                  For your offence;
      I ’ll shut my eyes to keep you in;
      I ’ll make you fast it for your sin;
      I ’ll count your power not worth a pin;        25
      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,        30
                  Because a god.
      Then sit thou safely on my knee,
      And let thy bower my bosom be;
      Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
      O Cupid! so thou pity me,        35
                  Spare not, but play thee.
 
 
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