Love's Servile Lot

Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope 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.

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.

With soothing words inthralled 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 murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms.

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

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.