Rosalynd’s Complaint

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,

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

With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.

Strike I the lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays, if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing,

Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting:

Whist! wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And hind 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:

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,

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!