The complete works of John Lyly now for the first time collected and edited from the earliest quartos with life, bibliography, essays, notes and index by R. Warwick Bond |
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| 18. | 18. A Warning for Wooers,
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 | The complete works of John Lyly |  |
465
18. A Warning for Wooers,
that they be not over hastie, nor deceived with womens beautie.
Ye loving wormes, come learne of me,
The plagues to leave that linked be;
The grudge, the grief, the gret anoy,
The fickle faith, the fading ioy,
In time take heed;
In fruitlesse soile sow not thy seed:
Buie not, with cost,
The thing that yeelds but labour lost.
The plagues to leave that linked be;
The grudge, the grief, the gret anoy,
The fickle faith, the fading ioy,
In time take heed;
In fruitlesse soile sow not thy seed:
Buie not, with cost,
The thing that yeelds but labour lost.
If Cupids dart do chance to light,
So that affection dimmes thy sight;
Then raise up reason, by and by,
With skill thy heart to fortifie;
Where is a breach,
Oft times too late doth come the Leach:
Sparks are put out,
When furnace flames do rage about.
So that affection dimmes thy sight;
Then raise up reason, by and by,
With skill thy heart to fortifie;
Where is a breach,
Oft times too late doth come the Leach:
Sparks are put out,
When furnace flames do rage about.
Thine owne delay must win the field,
When lust doth leade thy heart to yeeld:
When steed is stolne, who makes al fast,
May go on foot for al his haste:
In time shut gate,
For had I wist, doth come too late:
Fast bind, fast find;
Repentance alwaies commeth behind.
When lust doth leade thy heart to yeeld:
When steed is stolne, who makes al fast,
May go on foot for al his haste:
In time shut gate,
For had I wist, doth come too late:
Fast bind, fast find;
Repentance alwaies commeth behind.
The Syrens tunes oft time beguiles,
So doth the teares of Crocodiles;
But who so learnes Ulysses lore,
May passe the seas, and win the shore.
Stop eares, stand fast,
Through Cupids trips, thou shalt him cast;
Flie baits, shun hookes,
Be thou not snarde with lovely lookes.
So doth the teares of Crocodiles;
But who so learnes Ulysses lore,
May passe the seas, and win the shore.
Stop eares, stand fast,
Through Cupids trips, thou shalt him cast;
Flie baits, shun hookes,
Be thou not snarde with lovely lookes.
466
Where Venus hath the maisterie,
There love hath lost her libertie:
Where love doth win the victorie,
The fort is sackt with crueltie.
First look, then leap,
In suretie so your skinnes you keepe;
The snake doth sting,
That lurking lieth with hissing.
There love hath lost her libertie:
Where love doth win the victorie,
The fort is sackt with crueltie.
First look, then leap,
In suretie so your skinnes you keepe;
The snake doth sting,
That lurking lieth with hissing.
Where Cupids fort hath made a waie,
There grave advise doth beare no swaie;
Where love doth raigne, and rule the roste,
There reason is exilde the coast:
Like all, love none,
Except ye use discretion:
First try, then trust,
Be not deceived with sinful lust.
There grave advise doth beare no swaie;
Where love doth raigne, and rule the roste,
There reason is exilde the coast:
Like all, love none,
Except ye use discretion:
First try, then trust,
Be not deceived with sinful lust.
Marke Priams sonne, his fond devise,
When Venus did obtaine the prise;
For Pallas skil, and Junoes strength,
He chose that bred his bane, at length.
Choos wit, leave wil,
Let Helen be with Paris stil:
Amis goeth al
Wher fancie forceth fooles to fall.
When Venus did obtaine the prise;
For Pallas skil, and Junoes strength,
He chose that bred his bane, at length.
Choos wit, leave wil,
Let Helen be with Paris stil:
Amis goeth al
Wher fancie forceth fooles to fall.
Where was there found a happier wight
Than Troylus was, til love did light?
What was the end of Romeus?
Did he not die, like Piramus?
Who baths in blis,
Let him be mindful of Iphis:
Who seeks to plese,
May ridden be, like Hercules.
Than Troylus was, til love did light?
What was the end of Romeus?
Did he not die, like Piramus?
Who baths in blis,
Let him be mindful of Iphis:
Who seeks to plese,
May ridden be, like Hercules.
I lothe to tel the peevish brawles,
And fond delights, of Cupids thrawles;
Like Momish mates of Midas mood,
They gape to get that doth no good:
Now down, now up,
As tapsters use to tosse the cup:
One breedeth ioy,
Another breeds as great anoy.
And fond delights, of Cupids thrawles;
Like Momish mates of Midas mood,
They gape to get that doth no good:
Now down, now up,
As tapsters use to tosse the cup:
One breedeth ioy,
Another breeds as great anoy.
467
Some love for wealth, and some for hue,
And none of both these loves are true:
For when the mil hath lost her sailes,
Then must the miller lose his vailes:
Of grasse commeth hay,
And flowers faire wil soon decay:
Of ripe commeth rotten;
In age al beautie is forgotten.
And none of both these loves are true:
For when the mil hath lost her sailes,
Then must the miller lose his vailes:
Of grasse commeth hay,
And flowers faire wil soon decay:
Of ripe commeth rotten;
In age al beautie is forgotten.
Some loveth too hie, and some too lowe,
And of them both great griefs do grow;
And some do love the common sort,
And common folke use common sport.
Looke not too hie,
Least that a chip fall in thine eie:
But hie or lowe,
Ye may be sure she is a shrow.
And of them both great griefs do grow;
And some do love the common sort,
And common folke use common sport.
Looke not too hie,
Least that a chip fall in thine eie:
But hie or lowe,
Ye may be sure she is a shrow.
But, Sirs, I use to tell no tales;
Ech fish that swims doth not beare scales;
In everie hedge I find not thornes;
Nor everie beast doth carrie hornes:
I saie not so,
That everie woman causeth wo:
That were too broad;
Who loveth not venom, must shun the tode.
Ech fish that swims doth not beare scales;
In everie hedge I find not thornes;
Nor everie beast doth carrie hornes:
I saie not so,
That everie woman causeth wo:
That were too broad;
Who loveth not venom, must shun the tode.
Who useth still the truth to tel,
May blamed be, though he saie wel:
Say crowe is white, and snowe is blacke,
Lay not the fault on woman's backe;
Thousands were good,
But few scapte drowning in Noes flood:
Most are wel bent;
I must say so, least I be shent.
May blamed be, though he saie wel:
Say crowe is white, and snowe is blacke,
Lay not the fault on woman's backe;
Thousands were good,
But few scapte drowning in Noes flood:
Most are wel bent;
I must say so, least I be shent.
FINIS.
| The complete works of John Lyly | |