17. Of lingeringe Loue.[_]
The attribution of this poem is questionable.
1
In lingeringe Loue mislikinge growes,
Wherby our fancies ebbs and flowes:
We love to day, and hate to morne,
And dayly wher we list to scorne.
Take heede therfore,
If she mislike, then love no more:
Quicke speed makes waste,
Loue is not gotten in such haste.
2
The sute is colde that soone is done,
The forte is feeble easly wonne:
The haulke that soone comes by her pray,
may take a Toye and sore away.
Marke what means this,
Some thincke to hitt & yet they misse:
ffirst creepe, then goe,
Me thinke[s] our loue is handled soe.
3
ffor lacke of Bellowes the fire goes out,
Some say, the next way is about:
ffew thinges are had without some sute,
The tree at first will beare no fruite.
Serue longe, Hope well,
Loe heere is all that I can tell:
Tyme tries out troth,
And troth is likt' wher ere it goth.
4
Some thincke all theirs that they doe seeke,
Some wantons wooe but for a weeke:
Some wooe to shew their subtile witte,
Such Palfreyes play vpon their bitte.
ffine heads god knowes,
That plucke a nettle for a rose:
They meete their mach,
And fare the woorsse because they snach.
5
We silly women can not rest,
for Men that love to woe in iest:
Some lay their baite in ev'ry nooke,
And ev'ry fish doth spie their hooke.
Ill ware, good cheape,
Which makes vs looke before we leape;
Craft, can cloke much,
God saue all simple soules from such.
6
Though lingeringe Loue be lost some while,
Yet lingeringe louers laugh and smile:
Who will not linger for a day,
May banish hope and happ away.
Loue must be plide,
Who thinckes to sayle must wayte ye tide:
Thus ends this dance:
God send all ling'rers happie chance.
Finis.
