In love? Away, you do me wrong.
I hope I ha'not live so long
Free from the treachery of your eyes
Now to be caught and made a prize.
No, lady, 'tis not all your art
Can make me and my freedom part.
In love? 'Tis true, with Spanish wine
Or the French juice incarnadine,
But truly not with your sweet face,
This dimple or that hidden grace.
There's far more sweetness in pure wine
Than in those lips or eyes of thine.
Your god, you say, can shoot so right
He'll wound a heart i'th' darkest night.
Pray let him throw away a dart
And try if he can hit my heart.
No, Cupid, if I shall be thine,
Turn Ganymede and fill us wine.
