Love's god is a boy

Love's god is a boy,

None but cowherds regard him,

His dart is a toy,

Great opinion hath marred him:

The fear of the wag

Hath made him so brag;

Chide him, he'll flie thee

And not come nigh thee.

Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random,

For if you hit me, slave, I'll tell your grandam.

Fond love is a child

And his compass is narrow,

Young fools are beguiled

With the fame of his arrow;

He dareth not strike

If his stroke do mislike:

Cupid, do you hear me?

Come not too near me.

Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you,

For if you hit me, knave, in faith I'll breech you.

Th' ape loves to meddle

When he finds a man idle,

Else is he a-flirting

Where his mark is a-courting;

When women grow true

Come teach me to sue,

Then I'll come to thee

Pray thee and woo thee.

Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger,

For if you hit me, knave, I'll call thee, beggar.