Elegy 9 by Ovid, translated by Christopher Marlowe

Yet should I curse a god, if he but said,

Live without love, so sweet ill is a maid.

For when my loathing it of heat deprives me,

I know not whether my mind's whirlwind drives me.

Even as a headstrong courser bears away,

His rider vainly striving him to stay,

Or as a sudden gale thrusts into sea,

The haven touching bark now near the lea,

So wavering Cupid brings me back amain,

And purple Love resumes his darts again.

Strike boy, I offer thee my naked breast,

Here thou hast strength, here thy right hand doth rest.

Here of themselves thy shafts come, as if shot,

Better then I their quiver knows them not.

Hapless is he that all the night lies quiet and slumb'ring,

thinks himself much blessed by it.

Fool, what is sleep but image of cold death,

Long shalt thou rest when Fates expire thy breath.

But me let crafty damsels words deceive,

Great joys by hope I inly shall conceive.

Now let her flatter me, now chide me hard,

Let me enjoy her oft, oft be debarr'd.

Cupid by thee, Mars in great doubt doth trample,

And thy step-father fights by thy example.

Light art thou, and more windy then thy wings,

Joys with uncertain faith thou tak'st and brings.

Yet Love, if thou with thy fair mother hear ,

Within my breast no desert empire bear.

Subdue the wandring wenches to thy reign,

So of both people shalt thou homage gain.