Love's Servile Lot

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.