Who would be rapt up into the third heaven To see a world of strange imaginations? Who, careless, would leave all at six and seven, To wander in a labyrinth of Passions? Who would, at once, all kinds of folly prove; When he hath nought to do, then let him love! XIX. What thing is Beauty? "Nature's dearest Minion!" "The Snare of Youth! like the inconstant moon Waxing and waning!" "Error of Opinion!" "A Morning's Flower, that withereth ere noon!" "A swelling Fruit! no sooner ripe, than rotten!" "Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten!" XX. The Spring of Youth, which now is in his prime; Winter of Age, with hoary frosts shall nip! Beauty shall then be made the prey of Time! And sour Remorse, deceitful Pleasures whip! Then, henceforth, let Discretion rule Desire! And Reason quench the flame of CUPID's fire! XXI. O what a life was that sometime I led! When Love with Passions did my peace encumber; While, like a man neither alive nor dead, I was rapt from myself, as one in slumber: Whose idle senses, charmed with fond illusion, Did nourish that which bred their own confusion. XXII. The child, for ever after, dreads the fire; That once therewith by chance his finger burned. Water of Time distilled doth cool Desire. "And far he ran," they say, "that never turned." After long storms, I see the port at last. Farewell, Folly! For now my love is past! XXIII. Base servile thoughts of men, too much dejected, That seek, and crouch, and kneel for women's grace! Of whom, your pain and service is neglected; Yourselves, despised; rivals, before your face! The more you sue, the less you shall obtain! The less you win, the more shall be your gain! XXIV. In looking back unto my follies past; While I the present, with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste Painting on clouds, and building in the air: I sigh within myself, and say in sadness, "This thing which fools call Love, is nought but Madness!" XXV. "The things we have, we most of all neglect; And that we have not, greedily we crave. The things we may have, little we respect; And still we covet, that we cannot have. Yet, howsoe'er, in our conceit, we prize them; No sooner gotten, but we straight despise them." XXVI. Who seats his love upon a woman's will, And thinks thereon to build a happy state; Shall be deceived, when least he thinks of ill, And rue his folly when it is too late. He ploughs on sand, and sows upon the wind, That hopes for constant love in Womankind.