Love is a bable, No man is able To say 'tis this or 'tis that; So full of passions Of sundry fashions, 'Tis like I cannot tell what.
Love's fair in the cradle, Foul in the fable, 'Tis either too cold or too hot; An arrant liar, Fed by desire, It is and yet it is not.
Love is a fellow Clad oft in yellow,[10] The canker-worm of the mind, A privy mischief, And such a sly thief No man knows which way to find.
Love is a wonder That's here and yonder, As common to one as to moe; A monstrous cheater, Every man's debtor; Hang him and so let him go.
From JOHN WILBYE's _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609.
Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part: No, nor for a constant heart! For these may fail or turn to ill: So thou and I shall sever. Keep therefore a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why! So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
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.
Fond love is a child And his compass is narrow, Young fools are beguiled With the fame of his arrow; He dareth not strike If his stroke do mislike: Cupid, do you hear me? Come not too near me. Little boy, pretty knave, hence I beseech you, For if you hit me, knave, in faith I'll breech you.
Th' ape loves to meddle When he finds a man idle, Else is he a-flirting Where his mark is a-courting; When women grow true Come teach me to sue, Then I'll come to thee Pray thee and woo thee. Little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger, For if you hit me, knave, I'll call thee, beggar.
From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.
Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly Far from base earth, but not to mount too high; For true pleasure Lives in measure, Which if men forsake, Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.
But my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight, Enamoured sought to woo the sun's fair light, Whose rich brightness Moved their lightness To aspire so high That all scorched and consumed with fire now drown'd in woe they lie.