Caelica, Sonnet XXXIV

CVpid, my little Boy, come home againe,
I doe not blame thee for thy running hence,
Where thou found'st nothing but desires paine,
Iealousie, with selfe-vnworthinesse, offence.

Alas, I cannot Sir, I am made lame,
I light no sooner in sweet Myra's eyes,
(Whence I thought ioy and pleasure tooke their name)
But my right-wing of wanton passion dyes.

And I poore child am here in stead of play,
So whip'd and scourg'd with modestie and truth,
As hauing lost all hope to scape away,
I yet take pleasure to 'tice hither youth:
That my Schoole-fellowes plagu'e aswell as I,
May not make merry, when they heare mercy.