Quod primo amore correptus, in triumphum duci se a Cupidine patiatur

What makes my bed seem hard seeing it is soft?
Or why slips down the coverlet so oft?
Although the nights be long, I sleep not tho,
My sides are sore with tumbling to and fro.
Were Love the cause, it's like I should descry him,
Or lies he close, and shoots where none can spy him?
'Twas so, he struck me with a slender dart,
'Tis cruel Love turmoils my captive heart.
Yielding or struggling do we give him might;
Let's yield, a burden easily borne is light.
I saw a brandished fire increase in strength,
Which being not shaked, I saw it die at length.
Young oxen newly yoked are beaten more
Than oxen which have drawn the plough before;
And rough jades' mouths with stubborn bits are to ,
But managed horses' heads are lightly borne.
Unwilling lovers love doth more torment
Than such as in their bondage feel content.
Lo, I confess, I am thy captive, I,
And hold my conquered hands for thee to tie.
What need'st thou war? I sue to thee for grace;
With arms to conquer armless men is base.
Yoke Venus' doves, put myrtle on thy hair,
Vulcan will give thee chariots rich and fair;
The people thee applauding, thou shalt stand,
Guiding the harmless pigeons with thy hand;
Young men and women shalt thou lead as thrall,
So will thy triumph seem magnifical.
I, lately caught, will have a new-made wound,
And captive-like be manacled and bound;
Good Meaning, Shame, and such as seek love's wrack
Shall follow thee, their hands tied at their back.
Thee all shall fear, and worship as a king,
Io triumphing shall thy people sing.
Smooth Speeches, Fear and Rage shall by thee ride,
Which troops have always been on Cupid's side;
Thou with these soldiers conquerest gods and men,
Take these away, where is thine honour then?
Thy mother shall from heaven applaud this show,
And on their faces heaps of roses strow.
With beauty of thy wings, thy fair hair gilded,
Ride, golden Love, in chariots richly builded.
Unless I err, full many shalt thou burn,
And give wounds infinite at every turn.
In spite of thee, forth will thine arrows fly,
A scorching flame burns all the standers by.
So, having conquered Ind, was Bacchus' hue;
Thee pompous birds, and him two tigers drew.
Then seeing I grace thy show in following thee,
Forbear to hurt thyself in spoiling me.
Behold thy kinsman's Caesar's conquering bands,
Who guards the conquered with his conquering hands.