XXVII. I will no longer spend my time in toys! Seeing Love is Error, Folly, and Offence; An idle fit for fond and reckless boys, Or else for men deprived of common sense. 'Twixt Lunacy and Love, these odds appear; Th' one makes fools, monthly; th' other, all the year. XXVIII. While season served to sow, my plough stood still; My graffs unset, when other's trees did bloom. I spent the Spring in sloth, and slept my fill; But never thought of Winter's cold to come; Till Spring was past, the Summer well nigh gone; When I awaked, and saw my harvest none. XXIX. Now LOVE sits all alone, in black attire; His broken bow, and arrows lying by him; His fire extinct, that whilom fed Desire; Himself the scorn of lovers that pass by him: Who, this day, freely may disport and play; For it is PHILOPARTHEN's Holiday. XXX. [Sidenote: _Otia si tollas periere Cupidinis arcus._] Nay, think not LOVE! with all thy cunning slight, To catch me once again! Thou com'st too late! Stern Industry puts Idleness to flight: And Time hath changèd both my name and state. Then seek elsewhere for mates, that may befriend thee! For I am busy, and cannot attend thee! XXXI. Loose Idleness! the Nurse of fond Desire! Root of all ills that do our youth betide; That, whilom, didst, through love, my wrack conspire: I banish thee! and rather wish t'abide All austere hardness, and continual pain; Than to revoke thee! or to love again! XXXII. The time will come when, looking in a glass, Thy rivelled face, with sorrow thou shalt see! And sighing, say, "It is not as it was! These cheeks were wont more fresh and fair to be! But now, what once made me so much admired Is least regarded, and of none desired!" XXXIII. [Sidenote: _Temporis solius honesta est avaritia._] Though thou be fair, think Beauty but a blast! A morning's dew! a shadow quickly gone! A painted flower, whose colour will not last! Time steals away, when least we think thereon. Of which alone, the sparing is commended. XXXIV. How vain is Youth that, crossed in his Desire, Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine; As though 'gainst heaven itself, he would conspire; And with his fraility, 'gainst his fate combine, Who of itself continues constant still; And doth us good, ofttimes against our will. XXXV.