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I'll do my best to win whene'er I woo: That man loves not who is not zealous too.

About the sweet bag of a bee Two cupids fell at odds, And whose the pretty prize should be They vow'd to ask the gods. Which Venus hearing, thither came, And for their boldness stripp'd them, And, taking thence from each his flame, With rods of myrtle whipp'd them. Which done, to still their wanton cries, When quiet grown she'd seen them, She kiss'd, and wip'd their dove-like eyes, And gave the bag between them.

Let me be warm, let me be fully fed, Luxurious love by wealth is nourished. Let me be lean, and cold, and once grown poor, I shall dislike what once I lov'd before.

Choose me your valentine, Next let us marry— Love to the death will pine If we long tarry.