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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
Rosalind’s Madrigal
By 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,        5
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        10
      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;        15
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,        20
And bind you when you long to play,
      For your offense;
I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I’ll make you fast it for your sin;
I’ll count your power not worth a pin:        25
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,        30
      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,        35
    Spare not, but play thee.
 
 
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