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. 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 tellas periere Cupidinis arcus._]