I will confess
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That let her lay
On me all day,
I’ll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not, I,
Now blubb’ring, cry,
It, ah! too late repents me,
That I did fall
To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.
No, no, I’ll be
In fetters free:
While others they sit wringing
Their hands for pain,
I’ll entertain
The wounds of love with singing.
With flowers and wine,
And cakes divine,
To strike me I will tempt thee:
Which done; no more
I’ll come before
Thee and thine altars empty.
Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.