way with these selfe louing lads, whom Cupids arrowe neuer glads: Away poore soules that sigh & weepe in loue of them that lie & sleepe,     For Cupid is a medooe god,      & forceth none to kiss the rod.	2 od Cupids shaft like destinie, Doth either good or ill decree: Desert is borne out of his bow, Reward upon his feet doth go,      What fooles are they that haue not knowne      That loue likes no lawes but his owne?
3 y song they be of Cynthias praise, I weare her ring on holidaies, On euery tree I write her name, And euery day I read the same.      Where honor Cupids riual is,      There miracles are seene of his:	4 f Cinthia craue her ring of me, I blot her name out of the tree, If doubt do darken things held deere, Then well fare nothing once a yeere:      For many run, but one must win,      Fooles only hedge the Cuckoo in.
5 he worth that worthinesse should moue Is loue,which is the bowe of loue, And loue as well the foster can, As can the mighty Noble-man:      Sweet Saint, tis true you worthie be,      Yet without loue nought worth to me. John Dowland, 1597