Nature that made them fair, doth love perfection. What Youth counts wisdom, Age doth bring to trial. Grave years in Youth, in Age needs no direction. A humble heart deserves, finds, no denial. Fairs ring their knells, and yet Fame never dies! True judgement's from the heart, not from the eyes! These two, two sisters, cousins to this lover; He often courts, as was his wonted fashion. Who swears all's fair, yet hath no heart to prove her, Seems still in Love or in a lover's Passion, Now learns this lesson! and love-scoffers find it! _CUPID hits rightest, when Lovers do least mind it!_ Although his guise were fashioned to his mind, And wording Love, as compliment he used; Seemed still to jest at Love and lovers' kind, Never obtained, but where he was refused: Yet now, his words with wit so are rewarded; He loves! loves two! loves all! of none regarded. Now he that laughed to hear true lovers sigh, Can bite his lips, until his heart doth bleed! Who jibed at all, loves all! each day's his night! Who scorned, now weeps and howls! writes his own meed! He that would bandy Love, is now the ball! Who feared no hazard, himself hath ta'en the fall! Beauty and Virtue, who did praise the fashion; Who, Love and Fancy thought a comedy: Now is turned Poet! and writes Love in Passion! His verses fit the bleeding Tragedy! In willow weeds, right well he acts his part! His Scenes are tears, whose embryon was his heart! He loves, where Love to all doth prove disaster! His eyes no sooner see, but he's straight blind! His kindred, friends, or foes, he follows faster Than his own good! He's now but too too kind! He that spent all, would fain find out Love's treasure! Extremities are, for extremes the measure. Thus thinks he, of the words he spent in vain; And wishes now, his tongue had eloquence! He's dumb! all motion that a world could gain, A centre now without circumference! CUPID, with words who fought! would teach him Art, Hath lost his tongue; and with it, left his heart! He swears he loves! (the heat doth prove the fire!) He weeps his Love, his tears shew his Affection. He writes his Love, his lines plead his Desire. He sings his Love, the ditty mourns the action. He sings, writes, weeps, and swears that he's in sadness! It is believed, _Not cured, Love turns to madness!_ Love once dissembled, oaths are a grace most slender! Tears oft are heard, Ambassadors for Beauty! Words writ in gold, an iron heart may render! A Passion Song shews much more hope than duty! Oaths spoke in tears; words, song; prove no true ditty: _A feignèd Love must find a feignèd Pity!_