XVII.
[Loue is a bable]
[1]
Loue is a bable,
No man is able
To say tis this or tis that,
Tis full of passions
Of sundry fashions,
Tis like I cannot tell what.
2
Loues fayre i'th Cradle,
Foule in the sable,
Tis eyther too cold or too hot,
An arrand lyar,
Fed by desire,
Is is, and yet it is not.
3
Loue is a fellowe,
clad oft in yellowe,
The canker-worme of the mind,
A priuie mischiefe,
And such a slye thiefe,
No man knowes which waie to find.
4
Loue is a woonder,
That's here and yonder,
As common to one as to moe,
A monstrous cheater,
Euerie mans debter,
Hang him, and so let him goe.
