Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/178

 THOMAS LODGE

707 Rosalind's Madrigal

E)VE 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, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses arc his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest' Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then pcrchcth he

With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee

The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the btring; He music plays if so 1 sing, He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence.

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;

Fll make you fast it for your sin;

Fll count your power not worth a pin.

Alas' what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me ?

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