Sonnet XXI: Lycia my love was sitting in a

Lycia my love was sitting in a grove,
Tuning her smiles unto the chirping songs,
But straight she spy'd, where two together strove,
Ech one complaining of the others wrongs.
Cupid did crie, lamenting of the harme:
Ioves messenger, thou wrong'st me too too farre:
Vse thou thy rodde, relye upon thy charme:
Thinke not by speach, my force thou canst debatre.
A rodde (syrby) were fitter for a childe,
My weapons oft, and tongue, and minde you tooke?
And in my wrong at my distresse thou smil'de,
And scorn'd to grace me with a loving looke.
Speake you (sweet love) for you did all the wrong,
That broke his arrowes, and did binde his tong.