Now I see, O seemly cruel, Others warm them at my fuel, Wit shall guide me in this durance Since in love is no assurance: Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, Beauty is a fading treasure. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! Prime youth lasts not, age will follow And make white those tresses yellow, Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint the dame despiteful. And when time shall date thy glory, Then too late thou wilt be sorry. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason! THOMAS LODGE. YOUNG LOVE’S A GALLANT BOY When Love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him, And back he vowed his flight he’d wing To Heaven, if she should leave him. But Spring departing, saw his faith Pledged to the next new-comer— He revelled in the warmer breath And richer bowers of Summer. Then sportive Autumn claimed by rights An Archer for her lover, And even in Winter’s dark cold nights A charm he could discover. Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, For this time were his reasons— In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons. THOMAS CAMPBELL. [Illustration: VENUS’ RUNAWAY] Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say? He is Venus’ runaway. He hath marks about him plenty: You shall know him among twenty. All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. At his sight the sun hath turned, Neptune in the waters burned; Hell hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook his seat. From the center to the sky Are his trophies rearèd high. Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. All his practice is deceit; Every gift it is a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears; And most treason in his tears. Idle minutes are his reign; Then the straggler makes his gain By presenting maids with toys, And would have ye think them joys; ’Tis the ambition of the elf To have all childish as himself. If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him, Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, ye’ll not abide him; Since you hear his falser play, And that he’s Venus’ runaway. BEN JONSON. BEWARE THE ROGUE