THOMAS LODGE

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : Whist, wanton, still ye !

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offence.

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in ; I'll make you fast it for your sin ; I'll count your power not worth a pin. Alas ! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me ?

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee ; Then let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee ; O Cupid, so thou pity me,

ThilUs i

IVyTY Phillis hath the morning sun

• • • At first to look upon her;

And Phillis hath morn-waking birds

Her risings still to honour. My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers.

That smile when she treads on them ;

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