ssing his lovely lasse with garlands crownd,
With whoopping heigh-ho singing care away.
Thus doth he passe the merry month of May,
And all th' yere after, in delight and joy;
Scorning a king, he cares for no annoy.

What though with simple cheere he homely fares,
He lives content; a king can doo no more,
Nay, not so much, for kings have manie cares,
But he hath none, except it be that sore
Which yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore,
The pangs of love. O! who can vanquish Love?
That conquers kingdomes, and the gods above.

Deepe-wounding arrow, hart-consuming fire,
Ruler of reason, slave to tyrant beautie,
Monarch of harts, fuell of fond desire,
Prentice to folly, foe to fained duetie.
Pledge of true zeale, affections moitie,
If thou kilst where thou wilt, and whom it list thee,
Alas! how can a silly soule resist thee?

By thee great Collin lost his libertie,
By thee sweet Astrophel forwent his joy;
By thee Amyntas wept incessantly,
By thee good Rowland liv'd in great annoy;
O cruell, peevish, vylde, blind-seeing boy,
How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see?
If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee.

A shepheard loves no ill, but onely thee;
He hath no care, but onely by thy causing:
Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shafts at mee?
Give me some respite, some short time of pausing:
Still my sweet love with bitter lucke th'art sawcing:
Oh, if thou hast a minde to shew thy might,
Kill mightie kings, and not a wretched wight.

Yet, O enthraller of infranchizd harts,
At my poore hart if thou wilt needs be ayming,
Doo me this favour, show me both thy darts,
That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming,
A free consent is priviledgd from blaming.
Then pierce his hard hart with thy golden arrow,
That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow.

But let mee feele the force of thy lead pyle,
What should I doo with love when I am old?
I know not how to flatter, fawne, or smyle;
Then stay thy hand, O cruell bowman, hold!
For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold,
I sweare to thee by Joves immortall curse,
I have more in my hart than in my purse.

The more I weepe, the more he bends his brow,
For in my hart a golden shaft I finde.
Cruell, unkinde, and wilt thou le