[Another of his Cynthia]

Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of them that lie and sleep!
For Cupid is a meadow god.
And forceth none to kiss the rod.

God Cupid's shaft, like destiny.
Doth either good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his feet doth go:
What fools are they that have not known
That Love likes no laws but his own!

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holidays;
On every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same:
Where Honour Cupid's rival is.
There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree;
If doubt do darken things held dear.
Then " Welfare nothing! " once a year:
For many run, but one must win.
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.

The worth that worthiness should move,
Is love, which is the due of Love;
And love as well the shepherd can,
As can the mighty nobleman:
Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be,
Yet without love nought worth to me.