And if I sleepe, then pierceth he,
with prettie slight:
And makes his pillow of my knee,
the liue-long night.
Strike I my Lute, he tunes the string,
He musicke playes if I but sing,
He lends me euery lonely thing,
Yet cruell he my heart doth sting.
Whilst wanton, still ye.
Else I with Roses euery day
will whip ye hence:
And binde ye when ye long to play,
for your offence.
Ile shut mine eyes to keepe ye in,
Ile make you fast it for your sinne,
He count your power not woorth a pin.
Alas, what hereby shall I winne
If he gaine-say me?
What if I beate 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 bosome be:
Lurke in mine eyes, I like of thee.
O Cupid, so thou pitty me,
Spare not, but play thee.
FINIS.