Literature is mostly about having sax and not much about having children. Life is the other way round...

Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet;
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amid-st my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
and yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye ?

Love guards the roses of thy lips
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shine;
And if I look the boy will lour,
And from their orbs shoots shafts divine.

Also an fantastic artist: