1 Away with these selfe louing lads, Whom Cupids arrow neuer glads. Away poore soules that sigh and weep, In loue of them that lie and sleepe. For Cupid is a medow God, And forceth none to kisse the rod. 2 God Cupids shaft, like destinie, Doth eyther good or ill decree : Desert is borne out of his bow, Reward vpon his foot doth goe. What fools are they that haue not known That loue likes no lawes but his owne ? 3 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 honor, Cupids riuall is, There miracles are seene of his. 4 If Cynthia craue her ring of mee, I blot her name out of the tree. If doubt do darken things held deare, Then welfare nothing once a yeare : For many run, but one must win, Fools onely hedge the Cuckoe in. 5 The worth that worthinesse should moue Is loue, which is the bowe of loue; And loue as well the Foster can, As can the mighty Nobleman : Sweet Saint, tis true you worthy be, Yet without loue nought worth to me.