The Poems of Henry Howard :: :: University of Virginia Library

Wrapt in my carelesse cloke, as I walke to and fro,
I se how loue can shew what force there reigneth in his bow;
And how he shoteth eke, a hardy hart to wound;
And where he glanceth by agayne, that litle hurt is found.
For seldom is it sene he woundeth hartes alike:
The tone may rage, when tothers loue is often farre to seke.
All this I se, with more, and wonder thinketh me
Howe he can strike the one so sore, and leaue the other fre.
I se that wounded wight, that suffreth all this wrong,

How he is fed with yeas and nayes, and liueth all to long.
In silence though I kepe such secretes to my self,
Yet do I se how she sometime doth yeld a loke by stelth,
As though it seemed, ywys, I will not lose the so,—
When in her hart so swete a thought did neuer truely grow.
Then say I thus: alas, that man is farre from blisse
That doth receiue for his relief none other gayn but this.
And she, that fedes him so,—I fele, and finde it plain—
Is but to glory in her power, that ouer such can reign.
Nor are such graces spent but when she thinkes that he,
A weried man, is fully bent such fansies to let flie;
Then to retain him stil she wrasteth new her grace,
And smileth, lo, as though she would forthwith the man embrace.
But when the proofe is made to try such lokes withall,
He findeth then the place all voyde, and fraighted full of gall.
Lord, what abuse is this! who can such women praise,
That for their glory do deuise to vse such crafty wayes!
I, that among the rest do sit, and mark the row,
Fynde that in her is greater craft then is in twenty mo.
When tender yeres, alas! with wyles so well are spedde,
What will she do when hory heares are powdred in her hedde!