"Away with these selfe-loving Lads, Whom Cupids arrow never glads: Away poore soules, that sigh and weep, In love 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 upon his wing doth goe; What fooles are they that have not knowne, That Love likes no Lawes but his owne.My songs they be of Cynthia's praise, I weare her Rings on Holy dayes, In every Tree I write her name, And every Day I read the same. Where Honour Cupids riuall is There miracles are seene of his.If Cynthia crave 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."