Thomas Lodge

To Phyllis

LOVE guards the roses of thy lips
    And flies about them like a bee; 
If I approach, he forward skips,
    And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
    And sleeps within their pretty shine; 
And if I look the boy will lower,
    And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire,
    And in my tears doth firm the same; 
And if I tempt it will retire,
    And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,
    And pity me, and calm her eye, 
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,
    Then I will praise thy deity.

But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her
In spite of these, and by firm faith deserve her.