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¶Another of his Cynthia.
AWay with these selfe-louing-Lads,
Whom Cupids arrowe neuer glads.
Away poore soules that sigh and weepe,
In loue of them that lie and sleepe,
For Cupid is a Meadow God:
And forceth none to kisse the rod.
God Cupids shaft like destinie,
Doth either good or ill decree.
Desert is borne out of his bowe,
Reward vpon his feete doth goe.
What fooles are they that haue not knowne,
That Loue likes no lawes but his owne?
My Songs they be of Cynthias praise,
I weare her Rings on Holy-dayes,
On euery Tree I write her name,
And euery day I reade the same.
Where Honour, Cupids riuall is:
There miracles are seene of his.
If Cynthia craue her Ring of mee,
I blot her name out of the tree.
If doubt doe darken things held deere:
Then wel-fare nothing once a yeere.
For many runne, but one must win:
Fooles onely hedge the Cuckoe in.