Xl

No art nor force can unto pity move Her stony heart that makes my heart to pant; No pleading passions of my extreme love Can mollify her mind of adamant. Ah cruel sex, and foe to all mankind, Either you love or else you hate too much! A glist'ring show of gold in you we find, And yet you prove but copper in the touch. But why, O why, do I so far digress? Nature you made of pure and fairest mould, The pomp and glory of man to depress, And as your slaves in thraldom them to hold; Which by experience now too well I prove, There is no pain unto the pains of love.