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Song by Renaissance composer Robert Jones arranged for cor anglais and guitar.
Love’s god is a boy
None but cowherds regard him
His dart is a toy
Great opinion hath marred him:
The fear of the wag
Hath made him so brag;
Chide him, he’ll flie thee
And not come nigh thee
Little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random
For if you hit me, slave, I’ll tell your grandam