Classic Poem

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 fly 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, slave, in faith I 'll breech you.

The 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, slave, I 'll call thee, beggar.