"Love plays the wanton, where she means to kill. Love rides the fool, and spurs without direction. Love weeps like you, yet laughs at your good will. Love is, of all things, but the true confection. Love is of everything; yet itself's but one thing. Love is anything, yet indeed is nothing. "We virgins know this, though not the force of Love. For we two sisters live as in a cell: Nor do we scorn it, though we it not approve; By prayer we hope, her charms for to repell! And thus adieu! But you, in Progress go, To find fit place to warble forth your woe. "Who first seeks mercy, is the last for grief," Thus did She part; whose image stayed behind. He in a trance stands mute, finds no relief (For She was absent, whose tongue pleased his mind), But like a heartless and a hurtless creature, In admiration of so sweet a feature. At length looked up, his shadow only seeing, Sighs to himself and weeps, yet silent stands; Kneels, riseth, walks, all this without True Being, Sure he was there, though fettered in Love's bands. His lips departed, parted were his blisses: Yet for pure love, each lip the other kisses. Revived by this, or else Imagination, Recalls things past, the time to come laments; Records his love, but with an acclamation! Repents himself and all these accidents. Now with the wings of Love, he 'gins to raise, His Love to gain, this woman he doth praise. "Women than Men are purer creatures far! The Soul of souls! the blessed Gift of Nature! To men, a heaven! to men, the brightest star! The pearl that's matchless! high, without all stature! So full of goodness, that Bounty waiteth still Upon their trencher! feeds them with free will! "Where seek we Virtue, learn true Art or Glory; Where find we Joy that lasteth, still is spending, But in sweet Women? of man's life, the Story! Alpha, they are! Omega is their ending! Their virtues shine with such a sun of brightness! Yet he's unwise, that looks in them for lightness!" (O let my pen relate mine own decay! There are, which are not, or which should not be, Some shaped like Saints, whose steps are not the way. O let my Verse not name their infamy! These hurt not all, but even the wandering eye, Which fondly gapes for his own misery. These do not harm the honest or the just, The faithful lover, or the virtuous dame; But those whose souls be only given to lust, Care more for pleasure, than for worthy fame. But peace, my Muse! For now, methinks I hear An angel's voice come warbling in my ear!)