Esther M. Zimmer Lederberg
Thomas Lodge Madrigall: Rosalynde
Loue in my bosome like a Bee
doth sucke his sweete:
Now with his wings he playes with me,
now with his feete.
Within mine eies he makes his neast,
His bed amidst my tender breast,
My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah wanton, will ye?
And if I sleepe, then pearcheth he
with pretie flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
the liuelong night.
Strike I my lute he tunes the string,
He musicke playes if so I sing,
He lends me euerie louelie thing;
Yet cruell he my heart doth sting.
Whist wanton still ye?
Els I with roses euerie day
will whip you hence;
And binde you when you long to play,
for your offence.
Ile shut mine eyes to keepe you in,
Ile make you fast it for your sinne,
Ile count your power not worth a pinne;
Ahlas what hereby shall I winne,
If he gainsay me?
What if I beate the wanton boy
with manie a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
because a God.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bowre my bosome be:
Lurke in mine eyes I like of thee:
Oh Cupid so thou pitie me.
Spare not but play thee.
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