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Love's Servile Lot

Robert Southwell 1561 (Horsham St Faith) – 1595

LOVE, mistress is of many minds,
  Yet few know whom they serve;
They reckon least how little Love
  Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit,
  The sense from reason's lore;
She is delightful in the rind,
  Corrupted in the core.

She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
  Pretending good in ill
She offereth joy, affordeth grief,
  A kiss where she doth kill.

A honey-shower rains from her lips,
  Sweet lights shine in her face;
She hath the blush of virgin mind,
  The mind of viper's race.

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find
  To find, but not enjoy:
In many frowns some gliding smiles
  She yields to more annoy.

She woos thee to come near her fire,
  Yet doth she draw it from thee;
Far off she makes thy heart to fry,
  And yet to freeze within thee.

She letteth fall some luring baits
  For fools to gather up;
Too sweet, too sour, to every taste
  She tempereth her cup.

Soft souls she binds in tender twist,
  Small flies in spinner's web;
She sets afloat some luring streams,
  But makes them soon to ebb.

Her watery eyes have burning force;
  Her floods and flames conspire:
Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are,
  And sighs do blow her fire.

May never was the month of love,
  For May is full of flowers;
But rather April, wet by kind,
  For love is full of showers.

Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives,
  Like surgeon, salve she lends;
But salve and sore have equal force,
  For death is both their ends.

With soothing words enthralled souls
  She chains in servile bands;
Her eye in silence hath a speech
  Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours,
  Short hap immortal harms;
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,
  Her song bewitching charms.

Like winter rose and summer ice,
  Her joys are still untimely;
Before her Hope, behind Remorse:
  Fair first, in fine unseemly.

Moods, passions, fancy's jealous fits
  Attend upon her train:
She yieldeth rest without repose,
  And heaven in hellish pain.

Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit,
  And slippery Hope her stairs;
Unbashful Boldness bids her guests,
  And every vice repairs.

Her diet is of such delights
  As please till they be past;
But then the poison kills the heart
  That did entice the taste.

Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath,
  Remorse rings her awake;
Death calls her up, Shame drives her out,
  Despairs her upshot make.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,
  Leave off your idle pain;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
  Love's service is in vain.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

2:13 min read

Robert Southwell

Robert Southwell, also Saint Robert Southwell, was an English Roman Catholic priest of the Jesuit Order. He was also a poet and clandestine missionary in post-Reformation England. After being arrested and tortured by Sir Richard Topcliffe, Southwell was tried and convicted of high treason for his links to the Holy See. On 21 February 1595, Southwell was hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn. In 1970, he was canonised by Pope Paul VI as one of the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. more…

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