LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.
LOVE, mistress is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serve ;
They reckon least how little Love
Their service doth deserve.
The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore ;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.
She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
Pretending good in ill ;
She offereth joy, affordeth grief,
A kiss where she doth kill.
A honey-shower rains from her lips,
Sweet lights shine in her face ;
She hath the blush of virgin mind,
The mind of viper's race.
She makes thee seek, yet fear to find
To find, but not enjoy :
In many frowns some gliding smiles
She yields to more annoy.
She woos thee to come near her fire,
Yet doth she draw it from thee ;
Far off she makes thy heart to fry,
And yet to freeze within thee.
She letteth fall some luring baits
For fools to gather up ;
Too sweet, too sour, to every taste
She tempereth her cup.
Soft souls she binds in tender twist,
Small flies in spinner's web ;
She sets afloat some luring streams,
But makes them soon to ebb.
Her watery eyes have burning force ;
Her floods and flames conspire :
Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are,
And sighs do blow her fire.
May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers ;
But rather April, wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.
Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives,
Like surgeon, salve she lends ;
But salve and sore have equal force,
For death is both their ends.
With soothing words enthralled souls
She chains in servile bands ;
Her eye in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.
Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap immortal harms ;
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,
Her song bewitching charms.
Like winter rose and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely ;
Before her Hope, behind Remorse :
Fair first, in fine unseemly.
Moods, passions, fancy's jealous fits
Attend upon her train :
She yieldeth rest without repose,
And heaven in hellish pain.
Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit,
And slippery Hope her stairs ;
Unbashful Boldness bids her guests,
And every vice repairs.
Her diet is of such delights
As please till they be past ;
But then the poison kills the heart
That did entice the taste.
Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath,
Remorse rings her awake ;
Death calls her up, Shame drives her out,
Despairs her upshot make.
Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,
Leave off your idle pain ;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
Love's service is in vain.
The Poets of the Elizabethan Age.
London: Sampson Low, Son, & Co., 1862. 22-25.
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