Licia my love was sitting in a grove, 
Tuning her smiles unto the chirping songs, 
But straight she spied where two together strove, 
Each one complaining of the other's wrongs. 
Cupid did cry lamenting of the harm; 
Jove's messenger, thou wrong'st me too too far; 
Use thou thy rod, rely upon the charm; 
Think not by speech my force thou canst debar. 
A rod, Sir boy, were fitter for a child, 
My weapons oft and tongue and mind you took; 
And in my wrong at my distress thou smiled, 
And scorned to grace me with a loving look. 
Speak you, sweet love, for you did all the wrong 
That broke his arrows, and did bind his tongue.