My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, My rams speed not, all is amis: Love is dying, faith’s defying, Heart’s denying, causer of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, All my lady’s love is lost, God wot: Where her faith was firmely fix’d in love, There a nay is plac’d without remove. One silly cross wrought all my loss; O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame! For now I see inconstancy More in women than in men remain. In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall. Heart is bleeding, all help needing, O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall. My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal. My weather’s bell rings doleful knell; My curtal dog that wont to have play’d, Plays not at all, but seems afraid. With sighs so deep procures to weep, In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquish’d men in bloody fight! Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, Green plants bring not forth their dye; Herds stands weeping, flocks all sleeping, Nymphs black peeping fearfully. All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for love is dead. Farewel, sweet love, thy like ne’er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe! Poor Corydon must live alone; Other help for him I see that there is none. XVIII Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame, And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike, Let reason rule things worthy blame, As well as fancy, partial might; Take counsel of some wiser head, Neither too young nor yet unwed. And when thou com’st thy tale to tell, Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk, Least she some subtle practice smell,— A cripple soon can find a halt,— But plainly say thou lov’st her well, And set her person forth to sale. What though her frowning brows be bent, Her cloudy looks will calm ere night, And then too late she will repent, That thus dissembled her delight; And twice desire, ere it be day, That which with scorn she put away. What though she strive to try her strength, And ban and brawl, and say thee nay, Her feeble force will yield at length, When craft hath taught her thus to say: “Had women been so strong as men, In faith, you had not had it then.” And to her will frame all thy ways; Spare not to spend, and chiefly there Where thy desert may merit praise, By ringing in thy lady’s ear: The strongest castle, tower and town, The golden bullet beats it down. Serve always with assured trust, And in thy suit be humble true; Unless thy lady prove unjust, Press never thou to choose a new: When time shall serve, be thou not slack, To proffer, though she put thee back. The wiles and guiles that women work, Dissembled with an outward show, The tricks and toys that in them lurk, The cock that treads them shall not know, Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman’s nay doth stand for nought.