Love is a living Lowe that lurking burneth

Love is a living Lowe that lurking burneth; 'Tis wound that paineth yet ne'er taketh tent; It is one long contented Discontent; 'Tis Dule which driving mad no Dule discerneth: Love's Will for nothing save well-willing yearneth; 'Tis faring hermit-like in city pent; It is a Malcontent when gained Consent; 'Tis holding greatest loss most lucre earneth; It is the being tane with gladdest gree; 'Tis Winner serving fain the thing he won; It is to entreat the slayer loyally. But how can Love, with all his favour shown, Cause in oar mortal hearts conformity When Love is love's own foe, most fere of fone?