Thus saith my Cloris bright,
when we of Love sit downe and talke together,
Beware of Love, deere, Love is a walking sprite,
And Love is this and that,
And O I wot not what,
And comes and goes againe,
I wot not whither,
No, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing,
for in her eies I saw his torch light blazing.
More verses by John Wilbye
- Happy, O Happy He
- Fly, Love, Aloft
- Alas What Hope Of Speeding
- As Fair As Morn
- Sweet Honey-Sucking Bees