Rosalynd’s Madrigal
LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,Doth suck his sweet;Now with his wings he plays with me,Now with his feet.Within mines 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 heWith pretty flight,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe livelong night.Strike I my 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, will ye?
Else I with roses every dayWill whip you hence,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:Alas! what hereby shall I win,If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boyWith 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 mine eyes, I like of thee!O Cupid! so thou pity me,Spare not, but play thee!