Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is,
Schoolde only by his Mothers tender eye:
What wonder then if he his lesson misse,
When for so soft a rod deare play he trye.
And yet my starre, because a sugred kisse,
In sport I sucke, while she a sleepe did lye:
Doth lowre, naye chide, nay threat for onely this:
Sweet it was saucy love, not humble I.
But no scuse serves, she makes her wrath appeare,
In Beauties throne, see now who dares come neere
Those scarlet Judges, threatning blooddie paine.
O heavenly Foole, thy most kisse worthy face
Anger invests with such a lovely grace,
That Angers selfe I needes must kisse againe.