Caelica, Sonnet LI

AWay with these selfe-louing Lads,
Whom Cupids arrow neuer glads:
Away poore soules, that sigh and weep,
In loue of those that lye asleepe:
For Cupid is a meadow-God,
And forceth none to kisse the rod.

Sweet Cupids shafts like Destinie
Doe causelesse good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward vpon his wing doth goe;
What fooles are they that haue not knowne,
That Loue likes no Lawes but his owne.

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I weare her Rings on Holy dayes,
In euery Tree I write her name,
And euery Day I read the same.
Where Honour Cupids riuall is
There miracles are seene of his.

If Cynthia craue her Ring of me,
I blot her name out of the Tree,
If doubt doe darken things held deare,
Then well-fare Nothing once a yeare
For many runne, but one must winne,
Fooles only hedge the Cuckoe in.

The worth that worthinesle should moue,
Is Loue, that is the bow of loue,
And Loue aswell thee foster can,
As can the mighty Noble-man.
Sweet Saint 'tis true, you worthy be,
Yet without Loue nought worth to me.