 | Poems (1872) |  |
247
XXVII. LOVE AND WIT.
Trew love fynds wytt, but he whose witt doth moveHim to love, confesseth he doth not love;
And from his wytt, passions and true desire
Are forc't as hard as from the flynnt is fyre.
My Love's all fyer, whose flames my sowle doth nurs,
Whose smoakes are syghs, whose euery spark's a vers.
Doth measure win women? Then I know the why
Most of our ladyes with the Scots doe lye.
A Scot is measured, in each syllable, terse
And smooth as a verse, and like that smooth verse
Is shallow, and wants matter cut in bands,
And they're rugged. Her state better stands
Whom dawncinge measures tempted, not ye Scott;
In briefe their out of measure cost, so gott.
Greene-sicknes wenches (not needs must, but) may
Looke pale, breathe short: at Court none so long stay.
248
For never wench at Covrt was ravishèd.
And she but cheats on Heav'n whom soe you wynn,
Thinkinge to share the sport, but not the synn.
| Poems (1872) | |