Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Various - Страница 81

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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 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 day

Will 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 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 mine eyes, I like of thee,

O Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

T. Lodge